Shadows in the Dark
by M. Forthe
Summary: He was a posh butler with fancy suits and a London accent, trying his best to care for the boy with no family. She was a gardener's assistant with muddy boots and a sketchy job on the side. The butler, the boy, and the gardener were all lost and fumbling in the darkness. Sometimes there was light. But sometimes the light only made the darkness seem darker.
1. Prologue

_Dedicated to my best friend, known here as Jesse A. Harper. She always had the best stories._

* * *

 _"Light thinks it travels faster than anything but it is wrong. No matter how fast light travels, it finds the darkness has always got there first, and is waiting for it." ―Terry Pratchett_

Prologue:

 _200 miles out of Baghdad, Iraq  
_ _March 23, 2003  
_ _Operation Iraqi Freedom_

The sky glowed like a hot coal dusted with ash. Behind lay nothing but darkness. The Humvee rattled around them, growling over the rough desert road.

"I give them two weeks before they roll over!" insisted Lieutenant Toombs.

"Fuck that shit!" argued Lieutenant Boswell. "It'll be at least a month!"

"Shut the fuck up, Boswell!"

"I'll shut your fucking momma up, motherfucker!"

"The next person who opens his mouth gets latrine duty until Baghdad!" barked Sergeant Vallant before turning to stare back out the window.

Lance Corporal Bryson began to say something when the Humvee suddenly ground to a stop so quickly that it gave every passenger whiplash.

"Easy on the pedal, Grimes!"

"Watch it, leadfoot!"

"Sergeant!" Grimes called back. "You might want to see this."

Sergeant Vallant growled in displeasure, but she hooked her fingers around the handle of her door, cracking it open. "Toombs, you're with me. The rest of you, stay in the vehicle!"

Holding her M16 close to her body, ready to fire, she jumped from the Humvee and glared around in the darkness. She flipped the light of her rifle on. Paired with the glow from the Humvee's headlights, it illuminated what seemed to be nothing more than a pile of debris lying in the middle of the road.

She approached cautiously, beckoning for Toombs to follow. As she neared, she realized that it wasn't debris at all, but some sort of clothing. A burkha perhaps? It moved a little bit, and she saw that it was a woman. She was sobbing quietly.

"Ma'am? Ma'am, are you all right? Do you speak English?" Sergeant Vallant neared. "Ma'am, are you—"

She stopped, not sure what it was that held her in place. Maybe it was the odd bulky shape beneath the woman's clothes as she rolled over, tears in her eyes.

Sergeant Vallant whirled around and ran for Toombs.

"BOMB!"

A bright flash suddenly lit up the night. Sergeant Vallant didn't even hear the explosion—she simply felt the hot blast of wind and debris on her face, the ground as she connected with it, choking on gravel. There was an incessant ringing in her ears. Something was burning, so close that she could feel the flames lashing out at her, singeing her cammies. As she blinked the dust and disorientation from her eyes, she realized that it was the Humvee, suddenly on its back, wheels still spinning.

Somebody was shouting at her, picking her up by her tactical vest and dragging her to her feet. Toombs. Her fingers were still clenched tightly around the barrel of her M16, as if they'd been cemented into place. She stumbled and glanced down. Blood soaked through the left leg of her cammies, and the soles of her boots had melted. She could smell the acrid stench of burnt rubber. Toombs grabbed her arm and wrapped it around his shoulders, helping her limp away from the Humvee.

Just in time. Another charge, this one buried in the ground and triggered by some debris, exploded, sending both Marines tumbling down the side of the road into a shallow ditch.

Toombs shouted at Sergeant Vallant, but she couldn't hear a thing.

Soldiers were suddenly everywhere, pouring out of their Humvees like black ants in the darkness, fire reflecting in their eyes. One of them grabbed Toombs, another snatched up Sergeant Vallant, dragging the two of them towards the nearest Humvee.

"You look like shit!" the man shouted into Sergeant Vallant's ringing ear.

She mumbled something about feeling like it too, but she couldn't tell how much she actually managed to speak, groaning as she was lifted into the Humvee.

"You're all right! We're gonna get you help!" another Marine reassured her.

She was barely aware of anything but the shaking of her limbs, the ringing in her ears that was starting to sound more and more like screeching, like a wail, that God-awful wailing of the crying woman just before she'd vanished in a blinding light.

"Toombs—" she gasped, trying to sit up when she realized that he wasn't in the Humvee with her.

"Hold still!" warned the Marine beside her.

"Grimes! Bryson! Boswell!"

"You can't help them! There are others with them! You've got to calm down, Sergeant!"

Sergeant Vallant went quiet, but she couldn't calm herself. She didn't know how long it was before they stopped, but she was still shaking, her ears still ringing, pain shooting up her leg with every bump of the Humvee.

There was a helicopter outside, gusting up wind and debris. That black bird was for her. They carried her to it, placed her inside, next to another Marine. His face was black with ash, his front soaked with blood.

"Boswell!" she shouted.

"Hey, Sergeant," the man greeted her wanly. "Glad to see a familiar face." He tried to lift his head, but fell back down with a weak groan. "You all right?"

"Yeah," breathed Sergeant Vallant. "Yeah, I'm OK," she reassured the man. "You?"

"Fan-fucking-tastic," he replied with a laugh that was interrupted with a cough. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. "What do you think? Are we going home?"

"I don't know!" replied Sergeant Vallant, having to shout to be heard over the helicopter as it started to lift off the ground. "Where's home for you, Boswell?"

"Los Angeles, Ma'am! And you?"

Sergeant Vallant closed her eyes, saw the sweeping skyline of the city reflected in the river, the sun rising behind the polluted clouds, casting its soft light over the landscape that right now was probably still caught in that muddy season between winter and spring, when the snow hadn't melted all the way, and the flowers hadn't yet bloomed. The city's lights. The city's shadows.

Thousands of miles away, it hadn't felt more like home than it did then in her imagination.

"Gotham."

* * *

 _A/N: Thanks for sticking through the intro. I'm a little rusty at writing fanfiction (haven't done it in ages, and I'm doing this at the request of a friend), so I hope you'll bear with me and my OC as we try to navigate this new place and story together._


	2. Chapter One

_"I had a way then  
_ _Losing it all on my own.  
_ _I had a heart then  
_ _But the queen has been overthrown.  
_ _And I'm not sleeping now—  
_ _The dark is too hard to beat.  
_ _And I'm not keeping up  
_ _The strength I need to push me."_

 _"Lights" –Ellie Goulding_

* * *

Chapter One:

 _A few years later…_

The Marine Corps didn't turn baby-faced recruits into bloodthirsty killers. It taught them how to be miserable. Marines took pride in having the coldest rations, the toughest sonsofbitches for commanders, and the oldest, shittiest equipment. They were better at being miserable than any soldier or swabbie or jet jockey.

That's why Margaret Vallant—usually called "Margot"—was just fine with feeling utterly miserable that cold, gray morning as she stood in the drizzling rain and rang the doorbell.

She heard footsteps echoing through the large door and saw a figure approach through the glass. Then the door swung inward, and Margot found herself staring into two piercing blue eyes.

"Can I help you, Miss?"

She didn't speak for a moment. The house had done enough to intimidate her already. Wayne Manor was almost mythic in its reputation, at least to people that lived in the inner city slums. People like Margot. It didn't disappoint.

The man in front of her was a lot like the manor, she thought. Stony, impassive, crisp. He even wore his pressed suit like a uniform. If she didn't know any better, she'd say he was a soldier, or had been at one point.

"Miss?"

"Yes," said Margot, starting out of her thoughts. "My name is Margot Vallant. I called earlier about the open position."

Those eyes narrowed a bit, as if scanning through invisible mental files, before sparking with recognition. "Right, Miss Vallant. Do come in. May I take your coat?"

"Thanks," she murmured, letting the man help her slip out of her coat.

"Right this way, Miss."

She followed the man, and soon she was in what seemed to be a study of sorts.

"If you'll wait here, I'll fetch the gardener, Mr. Harrison. Mr. and Mrs. Wayne are out, but I'm the butler, Alfred Pennyworth. I manage the household, and therefore, new hires," he explained.

"Of course."

The man nodded crisply. "I'll just be a moment."

Margot waited in silent curiosity, looking around the room lined with bookcases and scattered with deep, plush chairs. She tentatively touched the massive desk in front of her. It was real mahogany and nearly the size of her bed at home. While standing at one side of the desk, it was almost impossible to reach the other edge without leaning over it. Granted, Margot wasn't very tall, and her reach wasn't very long.

Alfred soon returned with a man Margot assumed was Mr. Harrison, the gardener.

He looked like a gardener, dressed in loose, worn denim trousers and a flannel shirt. His wet hair was plastered to his head and his boots were muddy. Margot could swear she saw Alfred notice the mud and grimace.

"Ah, Miss Vallant," said Mr. Harrison with a scruffy smile and a warm handshake. "I believe we spoke over the phone."

She nodded. "That's right."

Mr. Harrison indicated a nearby chair with his arm. "Please, sit."

Margot sat, watching as Mr. Harrison took a seat across from her. Alfred, she noticed, remained standing, his feet slightly separated, hands clasped behind his back.

A voice in Margot's head called: _Parade rest!_

She had to hide a smile as Mr. Harrison continued to speak.

"So you're Dr. Prentice's student. He speaks very highly of you."

Margot inclined her head. "Thank you, sir. What I lack in talent, I make up for with hard work."

"I trust you brought your résumé and a list of references?"

She reached into her bag and handed the papers to the gardener, who quietly looked them over for a moment before handing them over to Alfred, who scanned them much more thoroughly.

"Need the job for school then?" asked Mr. Harrison curiously.

He was a friendly man. Margot hardly felt as if she were in an interview. In fact, if it were for Mr. Harrison, she suspected she'd have the job immediately. Alfred, on the other hand, seemed much more reluctant, frowning slightly as he looked over her résumé.

"No," she responded to Mr. Harrison's question, trying not to let the butler's stony frown intimidate her. "The GI bill has that covered."

Before Mr. Harrison could reply, Alfred inquired, "In the service then, were you?"

Margot nodded, pointing at the papers in his hand. "It's all in there. Marines. I was a—"

"Sergeant," he interrupted quietly. "Yes, I see that."

"I was a sniper with the Thundering Third—Darkside." She wasn't sure why she was mentioning details. Perhaps she was trying to impress the man. He probably didn't even know or care what she was talking about.

"Any time overseas?" he inquired, not meeting her gaze, but looking instead at the résumé, as if he expected it to answer him.

"Baghdad. Operation Iraqi Freedom."

The man sighed and finally glanced up at her. "You do realize, Miss Vallant, that the position is for gardener's assistant, not sniper."

She sucked on her teeth for a moment before forcing a soft laugh. "Mr. Pennyworth, I _was_ a soldier. Now I'm an undergraduate in landscape management. I'm good with plants. I like them because they don't talk back."

The man's brow rose slightly, but he said nothing more.

Mr. Harrison, on the other hand, laughed nervously. "Well, my dear, your references are impressive. As you know, Dr. Prentice is good friends with Mrs. Wayne, and I see here that the department head has also recommended you."

Margot nodded once. "Yes. Like I said, I work hard."

Mr. Harrison held out his hand to Alfred, who passed the papers back to him. "One thing, though, Miss Vallant. It says here that you can only work Thursday through Sunday evenings."

"I have classes Monday through Thursday morning. "

"I see. Well, before we work things out, why don't you take a walk around the grounds with me? Tell me what you think."

"Very well," agreed Margot, rising.

She hoped that Alfred would find something else to do, but he followed behind. Apparently he took his role as head of staff quite seriously. Like a soldier, she thought again.

He reminded her of her drill instructor in boot camp, though years had passed and most of it was a blur. Drill Sergeant Griffin. She had been short, shorter than Margot, with fiery red hair and a voice that could curdle milk. Recruits never saw their drill sergeants eat or sleep or take care of any basic human needs. They were like machines.

She'd only known Alfred for ten minutes at the most, but she already wondered if he wasn't secretly part machine.

They paused in the entryway long enough to each don their coats: Mr. Harrison with his bright yellow slicker, Alfred with a dark and well-fitted trench coat, and of course Margot with her damp raincoat.

It was still raining, but with less vigor than before. The grounds were expansive. Margot was used to walking, but she felt a little self-conscious as they made their way outside. Her limp was faint but impossible to hide. She'd never quite regained all of the motion in her leg, still unable to bend her knee fully due to the extent of her injuries from the bombing.

Mr. Harrison was polite enough not to ask, pretending to not even notice, but Margot could feel Alfred's eyes practically burning a hole in her leg.

"Most of the grounds are wild," explained Mr. Harrison. "We sometimes remove dead trees and do a bit of growth management, but we usually focus most of our time on the gardens around the mansion. You can see why that would be plenty of work on its own."

Margot nodded, admiring the grounds. The gardens were well-kept, even in the unpleasant drizzle of early March. The hedges were neatly trimmed, the flowerbeds well fertilized and filled with blue and purple asters, pink colchicum, and orange-red helenium. Goldenrod and Russian sage bushes blossomed vigorously. There was even a good-sized herb and vegetable garden behind the kitchen.

She had to admit, she was impressed.

"You've been taking care of all this yourself?" she asked Mr. Harrison.

"That I have," he replied with a smile. "But it's getting to be a bit much, and we've had to bring in temporary help a lot lately. Thought we might as well have a permanent hire." He paused and pointed towards an empty patch of lawn. "You know," he commented, "the Waynes were considering putting in a fountain there to fill the space. What do you think?"

After the shock of even being asked for her opinion wore off, Margot frowned thoughtfully and stared at the lawn. "Well, it would look pretty from the house, I suppose, but isn't this visible from the approaching road? It wouldn't be so picturesque from that vantage point. Perhaps some trees along the outside edge to add cover so it doesn't seem so stark."

Mr. Harrison raised a brow and smiled, obviously impressed.

Alfred simply stood stiffly, rocking slightly back and forth on his feet. Another soldier trick, Margot noticed.

They continued the tour of the grounds, stopping on the east side of the manor, where a huge vine of wisteria climbed its way up the side of the house. Beautiful purple blossoms hung from it, but on a closer look, Margot saw that there was something wrong with the plant.

She was about to bring it up to Mr. Harrison when a child's shriek drew her attention away. She whirled around, only to almost collide with a slender, dark-haired boy as he came careening around the corner.

"Sorry!" he exclaimed distractedly.

"Oi! Master Bruce!" Alfred barked. "Watch yourself now!"

Young Master Bruce didn't stop moving as he apologized in a breathless shout, "Sorry Alfred! Mr. Harrison! Ma'am!" And then he was gone, his pleasant laughter fading into the distance.

"Whatever is the matter with him?" inquired Mr. Harrison curiously.

Alfred lifted his shoulders in a stiff shrug, but to Margot's amazement, she caught the faintest hint of a smile on the man's face. It seemed even the mechanical butler wasn't impervious to everything.

"So, Miss Vallant," said Mr. Harrison, turning to her. "What do you think of the wisteria?"

She clasped her hands behind her back, regarding the plant solemnly. "Well, I was about to say that it seems to have cankers, sir. I don't think they've reached the crown, so you might be able to rescue the plant with some heavy pruning and cutting."

Mr. Harrison smiled and exchanged a glance with Alfred, who remained as stony as ever, all traces of his smile gone.

"Right then," the butler said. "Thank you for your time, Miss Vallant. We have your contact information."

"We'll be in touch," Mr. Harrison interjected.

"Shall I show you to your car? Call you a taxi?"

"No, thank you," Margot replied. "I'll walk."

* * *

She was watering the philodendron hanging from her apartment window when she received the call.

"Hello?"

"Miss Vallant?" Mr. Harrison's cheerful voice echoed over the phone.

"Yes?"

"This is Mr. Harrison from Wayne Manor. I'm pleased to inform you that you've been hired. There are a few details and some paperwork to get in order, so can you be here early tomorrow? Say seven o'clock?"

"Of course," she replied, unable to keep from smiling. A position at Wayne Manor, even as a simple gardener's assistant, would look incredibly good on her résumé when she applied for a future career.

"Now before I forget, there is an option to board here, if you like, unless of course you prefer to remain at your current residence."

Margot glanced over her shoulder at the woman in the next room. She was dozing in an armchair. "Current residence, if that's all right," Margot replied quietly.

"Very well. I'll see you tomorrow then."

Margot ended the call, stood thoughtfully in the window for a few moments, and then finished watering her philodendron with a smile.

* * *

 _A/N: I kind of like playing with Alfred's tough side, even though we all know he's a big softie deep down…_


	3. Chapter Two

_A/N: I know I'm taking a few liberties, adding not only a gardener but an assistant to the Waynes' staff, even though I think traditionally it's just Alfred. :O I'll try to keep everything else as canon as possible._

* * *

 _I caught a chill  
_ _and it's still frozen on my skin.  
_ _I think about why  
_ _I'm alone, by myself.  
_ _No one else to explain  
_ _how far do I go?  
_ _No one knows.  
_ _If the end is so much better, why don't we just live forever?  
_ _Don't tell me I'm the last one in line.  
_ _Don't tell me I'm too late this time._

 _"Breaking Inside" –Shinedown_

* * *

Chapter Two:

 _One year later…_

It was a blustery gray day. The trees were bare, the grass brown, and there was a bite in the wind. A normal day for Gotham.

Except the city awakened to news of the murders of Thomas and Martha Wayne, and suddenly it felt like nothing would be normal again.

Margot emailed her professors that she wasn't going to be in class and rode her motorcycle into work, called there by Mr. Harrison, who said Alfred wanted to talk to them. The commute seemed twice as long and three times as cold. She couldn't keep herself from worrying selfishly about her employment. With his parents gone, would Bruce leave? Would he sell the manor? Would Margot still have a job?

She stopped herself. A twelve-year-old boy had just lost both parents—his entire family—in one night. Margot suddenly felt guilty for worrying about herself.

She went to the front door and let herself in quietly. She knew where to go for staff meetings, which though infrequent, still occurred on occasion.

There wasn't much of a staff. Alfred really did most of the work himself, contracting the rest with outside services on the rare occasion they were needed. It was pretty much just Mr. Harrison and Margot. The gardener greeted Margot with a wan smile and a nod. Usually the man was more cheerful, sharing a joke or a funny story. This time, he was quiet. Neither spoke, in fact. They just stood in solemn silence, glancing around furtively. It was eerie.

Alfred entered suddenly, looking tired and haggard, his short hair ruffled a bit, as if he'd been running his hands through it recently. Margot wondered if he'd gotten any sleep.

"Right," he greeted them with a nod, "Glad you both could make it. I assume you've heard the news."

They nodded.

"I just wanted to reassure you both personally that things will proceed as normal. If you have any questions, I'll do my best to answer them. If not, report for your duties as usual."

With that, the meeting ended and Alfred excused himself.

"Well…that was abrupt," Mr. Harrison murmured. "I apologize if you had to miss classes," he added quietly.

She shook her head. "It's fine. They'll understand. Since I'm here already, is there anything I can help you with today?"

"As a matter of fact, there is."

Soon Margot found herself outside with a pair of shears in hand and orders to trim the wisteria. Over the past year, she'd saved it from cankers, a case of root rot, and even a borer infestation, but the plant almost seemed to like causing her trouble. They were like mortal enemies in a way.

She turned the corner and saw, sitting on a bench nearby, his knees drawn up to his chest, Bruce Wayne. He seemed unusually small, as if he could fold himself into a tiny, pocket-sized version of himself. He looked like a little ghost that would blow away with the slightest breeze. He wasn't wearing his coat, just a sweater. He was shivering, Margot noticed.

She dropped her shears in the gravel and approached slowly, tentatively sitting on the other side of the bench. The boy didn't even look at her, his eyes fixed on the ground in front of him.

Not sure what to say, Margot gazed up at the vine that climbed above them, covering a good portion of the house. It was fitting to find the boy there. Wisteria, with its drooping blue clusters of blossoms, was often considered a symbol of sorrow. But Margot had also learned that the hardy plant was a symbol of survival because of its ability to grow and even flourish despite mistreatment and hard conditions.

The wisteria was still mostly bare, with just a few leaves bravely beginning to sprout. The flowers had yet to bloom, but Margot could see the new buds. She plucked a sprig with a few buds on it and twirled it absently between her fingers.

Glancing at the boy by her side, Margot slipped out of her jacket and draped it around his narrow shoulders. He didn't even look at her then, but she saw his hands move, his fingers clinging to the edges of her jacket.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

Margot rose then and started to prune, realizing that she didn't have to say anything else. In fact, it was probably better if she didn't. She'd lost people close to her before, so she knew that sometimes silence and a warm jacket was the best a person could do. Comforting words, no matter how well-intentioned, were often unwelcome.

"Master Bruce!"

Alfred's voice startled Margot, and it was only luck that she didn't accidentally cut the wrong branch, or a finger for that matter.

"There you are," said the man in a softer tone as he approached. "It's frigid out here," he told the boy. "Come inside."

Bruce glanced up at the butler and nodded quietly. He rose, and Alfred reached for him.

"This yours?" the man asked, lifting the jacket from around Bruce's shoulders.

She nodded and took it when he offered it. She noticed that he removed his own coat and wrapped it around the boy, leading him away with an arm and scolding him, "Now what have I said about going outside without your coat?"

Margot watched as they retreated, the boy and his butler. Was it daunting, she wondered, managing the Wayne estate alone? Caring for the boy that had lost so much so young? It was no wonder Alfred looked so haggard, as if he'd lost ten years of his life rather than a single night's sleep. He was keeping everything together, maintaining the sense of normalcy as best he could for the sake of that young man.

But things would never be normal again. Not for Bruce Wayne.


	4. Chapter Three

_I built my life on a rigid frame.  
_ _So nothing bends it only breaks into pieces and pieces.  
_ _I waited for hope to arrive but it never came.  
_ _Leaving me with only pain inside.  
_ _I'm going off the deep end._

 _"The Deep End" –Crossfade_

* * *

Chapter Three:

Margot was covering the flowerbeds with tarpaulins to protect the sprouting bulbs from frost when she glanced up and saw a figure prowling lithely on the garden wall.

"Hey!"

The figure froze and looked her way. It was a girl.

"What are you doing? Get down from there!"

The girl dropped to the ground and darted away with surprising speed. Margot gave chase, her feet pounding over the gravel. _Damn_ , she thought, _that girl is quick_. Fortunately, she knew the grounds better than the little intruder.

She cornered the girl in a place where the wall met shrubbery in a dead end. "You're trespassing—" she began, only to stare when the girl whirled around and scaled the wall like a cat.

Margot cursed. She wasn't going to lose the girl, not before she found out what she was doing hanging around Wayne Manor. Taking a few steps back, she ran at the wall and managed to grab the top and pull herself up. The girl was already dashing over the lawn, heading towards the main road.

Margot leapt down and would have given chase, except that she landed badly on her left leg and collapsed with a groan as pain shot through her like lightning.

She closed her eyes, gritted her teeth together, and let out a soft string of curses as she held her leg. She'd be fine. It would just take a moment for the pain to wear off. By then, though, the girl would be gone.

Except, when Margot opened her eyes again, the girl was still there, close enough to see her clearly, but just out of reach. Margot had once had a cat like her, a wary creature that stayed out of reach whenever she wanted to show him affection, but always twining himself through her legs when she was trying to do something important.

"Who are you?" Margot demanded as she sat up.

"Who are you?" the girl retorted.

The girl seemed harmless enough. Margot slowly answered, "I'm the assistant gardener. Margot."

The girl eyed her curiously, tilting her head to the side. "Cat," she finally replied.

"Cat?" Margot echoed. "Is that really your name?" she asked in disbelief.

Frowning, the girl crossed her arms and asked, "What's it to you?"

Margot shrugged. "Nothing. Why are you hanging around here?"

This time, Cat shrugged. "It's a nice place. Why are you here?"

"I told you, I work here," Margot answered.

"Yeah, I know. But why?"

"It's a nice place," she replied with a bit of a smile.

Cat sniffed and started to walk away. "You should get your leg looked at. It might be broken."

Margot didn't see a point in responding. She simply watched the girl leave before she gingerly rose to her feet, tentatively putting a bit of weight on her leg. It ached, but it was just sensitive, not injured.

"No more climbing walls, asshat," she reprimanded herself, limping the long way back to the flowerbeds and finishing her work.

* * *

Somebody was shouting nearby, loudly enough to be heard over the earbuds in Margot's ears. Pulling them out, she ran towards the sound, only to stop at the edge of the bordering hedges when she saw what the commotion was about.

A slight, dark figure stood on the roof, balancing on the balustrade. Bruce. Alfred was in the courtyard below, shouting in an all-too-familiar bark. For a moment, Margot thought he sounded a bit too much like a drill instructor.

"Get your bloody arse down here this instant!"

The boy started, and for a moment, Margot thought he'd fall. He didn't. He climbed from the balustrade and disappeared. Not a minute later, he emerged from the front door and approached Alfred sheepishly. He received a swift cuff upside the head. It wasn't a hard one, meant more for shock than actual pain. It was the same kind of knock Margot's mother used to give her when she'd done something stupid and dangerous, a panicked parental reaction when the woman hadn't known what else to do.

It was followed by a hug, Alfred pulling the boy into a tight embrace. "How many times have I told you?" asked the butler. "What the bloody hell were you thinking? What if you'd fallen?"

Bruce, still tightly encircled in the man's arms, explained calmly and patiently, "I'm conquering fear."

Alfred held the boy out at arm's length and retorted sternly, "You're giving me gray hair is what you're doing." He indicated his head of gray hair and added, "See this? That's your doing, mate."

From her vantage point, Margot couldn't see the boy's face, but the butler's stern countenance had faded to a gentle look of concern.

"I'm sorry that I worried you, Alfred," Bruce apologized solemnly. It was almost comedic, the serious voice that came from the small body, the feet pressed together, hands clenched at his sides.

Alfred held the boy by the shoulders. "Don't do it again," he warned him.

Bruce nodded, but as they both turned to go back inside, Margot caught a glimpse of his face and recognized the look in his eyes.

He'd do it again.

* * *

Bruce remained inside most of the time, except for his rare excursions onto the roof, when he thought nobody would see him, and the occasional venture through the gardens. It had snowed a few times, but none of it had really stuck. It had just made the ground wet. Margot and Mr. Harrison mostly planted the early spring flowers, pulling up the ones that had unfortunately been killed in a recent spell of frost.

She was wheeling away a barrow full of such plants when she caught sight of Bruce slowly wandering by. He had earbuds in his ears, and he seemed wholly distracted. Margot wasn't sure what possessed her to do it, but before she could stop herself, she approached the boy and quickly snagged the earbuds from his ears.

"Hey!"

She ignored his protest and popped one headphone in her ear, listening for a moment. "Spit?" she inquired, recognizing the band.

"What are you doing?" exclaimed Bruce, snatching back his earbuds. "That's rude!"

Margot was a little taken aback, but not by the shouting. It was the intensity in the young man's eyes, the fury burning behind those dark, soulful eyes.

"Sorry," she apologized quickly.

The boy glared at her and began to walk away.

"Hey!" Margot called after him, causing him to stop and turn. "Can I make a suggestion, kid?"

"What?"

She reached into her back pocket and pulled out her nasty old iPod with the cracked screen. Unwinding her headphones from it, she tossed it to the boy, who fumbled for a moment before he caught it in his hands.

"Breaking Benjamin and Three Days Grace," she told him, pointing at the iPod. "They got me through my rough patch." And with that, she limped off before he could say anything.

* * *

"Peanut butter sandwiches again?" inquired Mr. Harrison as Margot sat down at the table and pulled a sandwich out of her paper lunch sack.

"I happen to like them," she retorted, unwrapping it from its wrap and taking a bite. The truth was, she didn't like peanut butter, but she wasn't going to tell the man that all she could afford were peanut butter sandwiches because of the copay for her mother's latest hospital visit. That was personal, and she didn't mix personal things with work.

The kitchen door swung open and Alfred of all people walked through.

"Good afternoon, sir," Mr. Harrison greeted the man cheerfully.

The butler nodded as he approached. "Mr. Harrison." He turned to Margot. "And as for you…" he began ominously.

Margot froze, her sandwich half raised to her mouth. Had she done something? She suddenly found her mind running back over the past week, searching for any reason she might be in trouble.

Alfred reached into his coat and pulled something from the inside pocket. It was an iPod, accompanied with a note. "Master Bruce asked me to pass this on," he explained, adding something under his breath. Margot thought she heard the words, "I'm not the bloody postal service."

She took it, thanking him with a nod. It was her iPod, she realized, but it had been fitted with a new screen that wasn't cracked.

Alfred watched, thumbing his lapels for a moment before he commented, "I remember when 'disturbed' was an adjective, not the name of some band." He looked her over and added, "Fitting that you'd like it though, innit?" Then he left.

Margot frowned after him, wondering if she'd just been insulted. Had he gone through her iPod?

She glanced down at the note and opened it. Suddenly everything became clear.

 _Dear Ms. Vallant,_

 _Thank you for your recommendations. I particularly appreciated Disturbed, though you only had a few of their songs. I've taken the liberty of purchasing all of their albums and adding them to your library. I hope you enjoy them._

 _Bruce_

 _P.S. I fixed your screen. Try not to break it again._

Margot let out a soft laugh and folded the note again, shaking her head in wonderment. He certainly was an odd one. But she liked him, and she was pleased that he'd actually listened to her music. It made her feel good to help, even if it was just sharing heavy metal with a twelve-year-old boy.


	5. Chapter Four

_"I'm too young  
_ _To lose my soul.  
_ _I'm too young  
_ _To feel this old.  
_ _So long,  
_ _I'm left behind.  
_ _I feel like  
_ _I'm losing my mind."_

 _"World so Cold" –Three Days Grace_

* * *

Chapter Four:

There was a black car in the driveway, one of the vehicles plainclothes cops used when they didn't want to stand out. Margot could spot one at a glance. Anybody from the lower end could. It wasn't that they weren't plain. They were too plain, in fact, as if they were trying too hard not to stick out.

Even as she watched, the detective came from the house, sent off by Alfred, who stood in the doorway and watched as the man drove away. The cop glanced at Margot as he passed by. She nodded to him as he left. He was the one that had been on the news lately. The one who'd caught the Wayne killer. What he was doing there, weeks after the case had closed, she had no idea.

"You see that detective stop by?" she asked Mr. Harrison as they made their way toward the manor for a late lunch break, stopping by the shed to drop off some of their tools.

The man nodded. "So?"

"I was just wondering what he was doing here. Is he a friend of Bruce's?"

Mr. Harrison shook his head. "I don't care to know. It could have to do with their current investigation. You heard about that, didn't you? That guy offing people with weather balloons?"

Margot had heard the news. Everybody had. She shrugged and waited for the man to close up the shed before following him into the manor. They passed by one of the studies on their way, and Margot caught sight of Bruce inside, sitting at the desk and searching intently through a file.

"What's the deal with Bruce anyway?" she asked, completely off-topic.

"What do you mean?"

"He can't be his own legal guardian."

"He's not. Alfred is."

"The butler."

"Yes."

"Isn't Bruce technically his boss?" she inquired.

"Well…yes, I suppose so."

"So if Alfred grounds Bruce, Bruce fires Alfred. Sounds like a plan that was well thought out."

Mr. Harrison chuckled and opened the kitchen door for her. "It's not like that, Margot. They get on, you know. Alfred's been around all Bruce's life. He understands the boy. They're like family."

She shrugged and said nothing more, already preoccupied with a tray of food that rested on the counter. Approaching, Margot could tell that it had been there for a while, so she took a sip of juice and popped a few grapes into her mouth. She hadn't had grapes in what felt like ages.

"Hey!" exclaimed Mr. Harrison. "What makes you think you can do that?"

"It's here."

"Yeah, but it could be young Mr. Wayne's lunch for all you know," Mr. Harrison protested.

"It probably was," she replied calmly, "but it's not fit to be served to him anymore. The juice is warm and the bread is—"

"What about the bread, Miss Vallant?" interrupted a voice from the doorway.

She jumped a little, startled. "Mr. Pennyworth!" she exclaimed. Seeing the expectant manner in which he looked at her, she explained, "I was just saying that the bread on this sandwich is dry."

Those blue eyes regarded her in a curious way. "I'm terribly sorry, Miss. Shall I make you another? Toast it for you, perhaps? Cut the crust off?"

"Please do," she responded. "And could you spread a little more sarcasm on it? I like it extra thick."

"Well you're a cheeky little minx, aren't you?" the man noted with a raised brow. "Did that work well for you with previous employers? The Marine Corps perhaps? I'm sure the officers loved your charming wit."

Margot felt her face start to burn, mostly with indignation, but there was a little embarrassment mixed in. She knew she shouldn't have talked back. For a moment, she'd forgotten that Alfred was technically her boss, responding with her most basic instinct—to defend against sarcasm with sarcasm. She quickly explained, "I wasn't complaining, sir. I was just telling Mr. Harrison that nobody else was going to eat it."

Alfred didn't move for a moment, standing like a statue. She waited for him to reprimand her, send her home, fire her even, but he didn't. Instead, he took a deep breath and let it all out in a heavy sigh. "No, they won't. Apparently Master Bruce is no longer eating." He looked at the sandwich, then at Margot, and gave in after a moment. "Go on then. You might as well."

She gratefully took the sandwich, pleasantly surprised. He probably didn't want to eat it himself, and he didn't seem like the kind of person that would let it go to waste. It was practicality, not kindness that prompted the offer.

"Not eating?" asked Mr. Harrison in a worried voice.

"No," Alfred responded with a shake of his head. "He's going to starve himself sick."

Margot laughed through a mouthful of bread, accidentally spraying crumbs all over the counter.

Both men whirled and stared at her.

"Sorry," she mumbled, swallowing painfully. When neither of them looked away, waiting for an explanation for her ill-timed laugh, she exclaimed, "He's just a kid! I don't care how upset or how determined he is not to eat. His stomach's going to overrule him long before it becomes serious."

Alfred came around the counter, advancing on her. It was quite threatening, especially with the fierce look he had in his eyes. "Forgive me for stating the obvious, but you don't know Master Bruce like I do," the man growled, mere inches from Margot.

"No," she admitted, nodding in agreement. "But he's not going to starve. You won't let him," she pointed out, popping a grape into her mouth.

Alfred scoffed, shook his head, and stalked away, muttering under his breath.

"Thanks for the sandwich!" she called after him, receiving a closed door in response.

"That couldn't have gone worse," muttered Mr. Harrison.

"What?" she inquired defensively.

"You're going to push one too many buttons someday," he warned her. "You're a good assistant, but you're not that good. Have a care and don't get yourself fired, all right?"

Margot looked at the man, saw the worry in his face, and suddenly didn't feel so cocky. "You're right." She lifted the plate from the tray and offered it to Mr. Harrison. "Want half?"


	6. Chapter Five

_"Well I won't ever tell the world  
_ _that I don't belong.  
_ _Please don't ever tell the world  
_ _That I don't belong."_

 _"Don't Belong" –Cold_

* * *

Chapter Five:

"Are you terribly busy, or do you mind if I borrow her for a bit?"

It wasn't often that Alfred came down to the garden shed, and it was even less frequent of him to ask things of Mr. Harrison. This time, however, he did both, indicating Margot with a nod of his head.

Mr. Harrison frowned thoughtfully, pondering the request before he gave in. "All right then. But she's a gardener, Alfred. Not some spoon-polishing maid."

Alfred's brow creased a little, and one of his rare smiles flashed across his face. "The butler polishes the silverware, mate, and don't you forget it." His attention suddenly landed on Margot like a rock, the amused smirk gone. "Come on then."

She followed reluctantly, still feeling like an outsider, though she'd been working there for more than year. She'd always felt distant from the Waynes—that was to be expected. She'd barely even met them, perhaps a smile and a casual greeting as one or both of them passed through the gardens, offering a pleased compliment about managing to coax the wisteria back to life or her choice of flowers in the planters.

As for Alfred, well, she knew he wasn't a cold man, which made it even more infuriating that he treated her so brusquely. He could joke and play with Bruce—she'd seen them through the window, fencing with canes the other day. He could even share a smile with Mr. Harrison. But Margot, for some reason, was different. It wasn't that he seemed to dislike her.

Worse. He was indifferent.

"Wipe your feet," he reminded her gruffly before they entered the house, actually glancing back to make sure that she did.

"What do you need me for?" Margot asked, trying not to sound annoyed, even though she was.

Alfred didn't respond, leading her silently through the house. He stopped in front of a door and swung it open, indicating that she enter. It was a storage room of sorts, if Margot had to guess. Boxes were stacked upon boxes, documents lining shelves of bookcases.

"Master Bruce has requested all of the files on the Arkham plan. We need them moved from storage up to the study," Alfred explained.

Margot glanced back at the boxes and their labels. Arkham. Arkham. Arkham, Arkham, ARKHAM.

"There must be at least twenty boxes!" she exclaimed softly.

"Now you know why you're here," said the butler, already slipping out of his coat and draping it neatly over a pile of boxes. He rolled up his sleeves. "Shall we?"

Margot sighed and rolled up her own sleeves. She grabbed two boxes and hefted them into her arms, carefully carrying them from the room. Alfred followed with two boxes of his own.

She could feel his eyes on her from behind, and she wondered what the hell he was staring at and why.

"Is that a war injury?" he asked.

She assumed he was talking about the limp. "Yeah," she replied curtly. "Bomb. They say I'm lucky to still have a leg."

They reached the study. The door was closed, and Alfred set down his boxes to open the door. "If you need a break—" he began, his hand on the knob.

Margot reeled a little bit. Was he showing her concern? It was the first time he'd ever seemed to care at all. "I'll be fine," she replied.

He nodded and opened the door.

She entered.

Bruce glanced up from a file he had open on the coffee table, smiling slightly when he saw them enter with their boxes in tow. "The Arkham plan files?" he inquired hopefully.

"Yeah," responded Margot.

"Good," he said in a pleased tone. "You can set them over there," he added, pointing towards an empty place by the sofa.

She dropped the boxes with a grunt and dusted off her hands, stepping aside to make way for Alfred.

"How are you, Bruce? Did you get the CD I left for you?"

Bruce nodded. "I liked it," he said, "though I think they tend to overuse the metaphor between alcohol and blood."

Alfred straightened and shot a questioning, disapproving look at Margot.

"It's got a good beat to it though, don't you think?" she responded with a smile.

Before Bruce could reply, Alfred stepped in, interrupting in quiet reminder, "Boxes, Miss Vallant. Piles of them."

"Right." Grimacing at Bruce, she apologized and muttered, "Duty calls."

"I could help," the boy offered, tentatively getting to his feet.

Alfred opened his mouth, but it was Margot that got to it first.

"Ha! Like you could lift one of these with those twigs for arms," she teased.

"Hey!" Bruce protested.

"I believe what Miss Vallant so crudely attempted to say is that we'll manage fine on our own," interjected Alfred. He jerked his head at Margot, indicating that she follow him from the room.

Out in the corridor, he turned on her, whirling around so quickly that she had to back up against the wall to avoid colliding with him. "The boy has enough bloody nightmares as it is without you sharing your death metal shouting rubbish with him," the man hissed. "He's a twelve-year-old boy, in case it slipped your mind—not a Marine."

Margot frowned. "I'm not treating him like a Marine," she told Alfred quietly, using all of her energy to remain calm. "I'm treating him the way I wish somebody had treated me when I was fourteen and lost my father. Now," she continued in a crisper tone, "there are more boxes, and I'd like to finish before dark."

Then she pushed past him and left.


	7. Chapter Six

_"I lie awake on a long, dark night,  
_ _I can't seem to tame my mind.  
_ _Slings and arrows are killing me inside—  
_ _Maybe I can't accept the life that's mine.  
_ _'Cause me, I'm rusted and weathered,  
_ _Barely holding together.  
_ _I'm covered with skin that peels and it just won't heal."_

 _"Weathered" –Creed_

* * *

Chapter Six:

"Margot, you're late for class!" The shout was less of a shout and more of a wheeze.

Margot entered the front room and began to run her hands under the sofa cushions. "I know, Mom. Have you seen my keys?"

"You slept through your alarm again, didn't you?" Mrs. Vallant, reclining in her tattered old lounge chair, didn't sound surprised.

Margot began to fling the cushions from the couch, searching frantically. "I'm sorry. I stayed late at work last night."

"What do they have you doing there that's so urgent that you have to stay so late?"

"It's never urgent, I just get carried away."

"Gardening," scoffed her mother softly.

Margot stood straight and abruptly looked at the woman. "Well I had to do something, and I wasn't going to turn to bartending like you."

"I'll have you know that bartending is an art," Mrs. Vallant retorted.

Margot didn't respond, letting out a soft "Ah!" as she discovered her keys under a pile of clutter on the side table. She disappeared quickly into the next room.

"Would you grab me a beer out of the fridge on your way out?" her mother called after her.

Margot emerged, backpack on her shoulder, books in her arms and her keys dangling from her finger. "You can't have beer for breakfast," she grumbled as she dashed into the kitchen, lifting the keys to her mouth and hooking her finger through the plastic handle of the half gallon of milk. "Here," she mumbled, plopping it down on her mother's armrest.

"It's almost empty!" protested Mrs. Vallant.

"Love you, Mom," Margot responded absently, bending down to kiss the woman's forehead as she rushed for the door. "Maria's going to check in on you in an hour!"

"Be safe, kiddo!"

 _Kiddo_ , Margot scoffed to herself. _After thirty years, you'd think she'd be tired of saying that_. But she wasn't tired of saying it. And Margot wasn't tired of hearing it.

She'd never be tired of hearing it.

* * *

Margot sat in the hallway, wedged in a corner, her feet tucked under her so that people wouldn't trip over her as they passed by on their way to class. Her notebook lay open on her lap, the pages filled with her class notes, but she wasn't studying. She was busy scribbling on the back of a ripped envelope, writing sums down with careful precision, punching numbers into the calculator on her phone.

"Damn," she whispered softly to herself, coming up short for the fourth time in a row.

It wasn't the first time she had come up short on a budget, but it was the first time she'd seen such a large discrepancy in the figures. She knew it was her mother's trip to the emergency room, and the extra visit to the nephrologist that week. Medical care wasn't cheap, and most of it was coming out of Margot's pocket, insurance or not.

She had already considered asking for an advance on her salary. Mr. Harrison probably wouldn't mind, but since it was a matter of finances, approval would have to come from Alfred, and that was simply not going to happen.

Margot knew she'd be declined by the banks. She'd been declined before.

There were other options available, friends of hers with connections that she could lean on, but she was reluctant to use them, especially since she'd grown up in one of the grittier parts of Gotham and had seen what happened to others in her same position. It was a slippery slope, and she didn't want to be on it.

Margot wasn't sure why she even bothered going to class that day. She didn't pay attention, distracted as she repeatedly went through the numbers, almost manically. What was it Einstein had once said? _Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results_.

She escaped her last class without having drawn too much unwanted attention to herself, though her professor noted as she left, "Margot, you seemed distracted today."

Distracted. That was like looking at a hurricane and calling it a breeze.

Outside, a frigid wind had picked up, and dead leaves scuttled by on the pavement as Margot walked to her motorcycle. It was an older model that her father had fixed up. It was loud and got terrible gas mileage for a bike, but it was reliable, and it was one of the last things she had of her father's.

In her hurry to get to class, she'd had to park on the outskirts of the lot. She was looking forward to jamming her helmet over her head, covering her ears—which were beginning to sting in the brisk afternoon air—and riding home.

Except as she approached her bike, she felt a gut-wrenching shock.

Her helmet was gone, and her headlight had been bashed in.

"Shit."

The word escaped her more like a sigh than a shout, and she stood frozen for a few seconds, as if she'd accepted that the cosmic forces of the universe were determined to work against her today. For a second, she stopped fighting it, letting the despair creep past her defenses, overwhelming in its cold, quick advance.

Then, suddenly, as if she'd been lit up like a fuse, Margot swung her leg over her bike, turned the key in the ignition, and let the vehicle roar to life, rumbling beneath her. She sped out of the parking lot, fueled by some demonic energy, almost wishing that some anonymous delivery truck would crash into her and spread her all over the pavement, where she could stop caring for once and slowly fade away until she was just a name on a headstone, and then finally nothing at all.

She didn't stop until the rage inside her had died down, leaving her at the mercy of the cold wind in her face, freezing her hands to the grips of her bike. Becoming aware of her surroundings once more, Margot found herself deep in the maze that was Gotham's East End.

She'd spent quite a bit of her childhood in these neighborhoods, sauntering past the diverse assortment of restaurants, pawn shops, clubs, and bars, bothering passersby and being generally annoying. Some of her acquaintances were still there, working in the bars and clubs now instead of loitering in front of them. One of her friends, a skinny kid they'd always called "Slim Jim" owned his own stall where he sold knockoff brands of clothing. At least, that was what she had heard.

On a whim, Margot turned down a familiar street and revved her bike, driving it up over the curb and parking it outside of one of the more well-known clubs.

Still wearing her backpack—if her helmet had been stolen in the university parking lot, she wasn't going to leave her backpack lying around the East End—she squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and entered.

Red light glowed by the light of several low-hanging lamps, and a soft murmur of conversation permeated the warm air. It was quiet at this time of the afternoon, but business would soon pick up. It was Monday night, and Monday night was comedy night.

Margot limped stiffly to the bar, still waiting for her limbs to thaw.

"What can I get you?" asked the blue-haired bartender without looking her way.

"Is Freddie on shift tonight?" she inquired.

The man turned to face her. "Margot?"

"Freddie?" she exclaimed incredulously. "I didn't even recognize you! You're so thin! And what the hell have you done to your hair?"

He grinned and stepped out from behind the counter, pulling her into a tight embrace. "You approve? My girlfriend's got me on this new diet," he explained.

"How've you been?"

"Hold on," Freddie said, holding up a hand. "Ruben!" he called to a man across the way. "I'm going on break!" Turning back to Margot, he asked, "Can I get you a drink?"

She shook her head. "Better not."

"Come on, just a small one."

Margot sighed. "Scotch and soda."

"Coming right up."

Freddie took Margot and the drink to a secluded table in a forgotten corner of the club, where the two of them spent several minutes catching up with each other. Finally, though, the inevitable question came up.

"So what brings you here?"

Margot ran her finger absently along the edge of her glass. "I'm in a bit of a bind, Freddie, and I was wondering if you could help a girl out."

The man frowned slightly. "What sort of bind?"

"Look, I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important, but I need money."

"Like pocket change, or…?"

"A pretty big chunk," she replied reluctantly. "It's my mom. She's not doing so well."

Freddie frowned and shook his head. "How bad is it?"

Margot shrugged. "Dialysis and a lot of visits to the doctor. Plus, I pay the neighbor to look in on her when I'm not there."

The man sighed heavily. "Look, I shouldn't be doing this, but since it's your mom, I'll have a word with my boss. She might be able to help you out."

"I'm sorry to ask this of you," Margot apologized ruefully, "but I didn't know where else to go."

Freddie nodded. "I know. Just be careful, all right? These people are scary and important." He slowly got to his feet. "Give me a minute."

Margot watched him go in silence. She couldn't help but feel a sense of dread envelop her as she stared at her drink.

Freddie wasn't long. He returned and gave her a wan but encouraging smile. "Turns out, I know how to talk somebody up. She'll see you."

Margot downed the rest of her drink in one quick gulp and got to her feet, leaving her backpack in the booth. "Thanks, Freddie."

He grabbed her by the shoulder before she could walk past. "Be careful," he hissed into her ear, squeezing her shoulder before he let go. "She's up in her office." He pointed the way.

Margot took a deep breath and made her way up the stairs. There was a man in front of the door, big, bulky, and mean like a Rottweiler. She gave him a once over and found herself thinking: _here's a dog with big bark and a little bite_. She didn't mention that to him, though.

Instead, she said, "Freddie sent me."

The man nodded and opened the door for her. She stepped past him and entered.

The room was a darker shade of red than the downstairs, soft and plush, but with a businesslike edge. Across the room, flanked by two colossal bodyguards, sat a slight woman, her legs crossed over her desk. She watched Margot approach with a raised brow and a curious smile on her face.

"A friend of Freddie's, are you?" she greeted Margot pleasantly.

Margot hesitated, reluctant to respond. This woman had bite, and she didn't like it. In fact, she was simultaneously repulsed and impressed with the woman. There was something about her, something strong and frightening lurking just below the warm smile and curious eyes.

"Yes. Margaret Vallant," she introduced herself.

The woman leisurely uncrossed her legs and stood, coming around the desk. "Fish Mooney," she replied, adding, "That's Ms. Mooney to you."

Margot inclined her head. "Yes, ma'am."

A satisfied smile crossed her face. "So, Margaret, I hear you're in need of some cash."

She nodded.

"Tell me," the woman murmured, approaching Margot, circling her slowly, "what brought you to me?"

"I had nowhere else to go," she answered quietly.

"And what makes you think I'll help you?" Mooney examined her fingernails calmly.

"I'll pay it back," Margot promised. "You write the terms and I'll keep them."

She looked up. "And if you can't?"

Margot felt a dark, sticky dread well up inside her, but she pushed through it and responded, "I have certain skills that you may find useful, should I be unable to pay when the time comes."

That seemed to pique Mooney's interest. "Tell me more about these skills," she purred.

"I was a sniper with the Marine Corps," Margot told the woman, staring fixedly ahead. "I'm trained in target acquisition, stalking, infiltration, close combat, and with a clear shot, I can kill a man a mile away."

Her eyebrows both rose this time. "Is that so?" She considered Margot for a moment before snapping her fingers.

One of the bodyguards behind the desk shifted and came forward.

Without removing her eyes from Margot, Mooney murmured, "Let's test those combat skills."

The man cracked his neck and advanced on Margot.

She hadn't necessarily expected such a test, but she wasn't all that surprised by it. She didn't want to fight, but it seemed that today wasn't her day.

She was a good foot shorter than the man, and he probably had a hundred pounds on her. He took an experimental swing at her, and she ducked, taking a step back. She had to manage the uneven spread of her body, knowing she'd be unable to put much weight on her lame leg, which was still aching from the time she'd spent on her bike out in the cold.

Fortunately, the man was not as quick as she was.

He swung again and she dodged to the side, this time grabbing his arm and twisting it forcefully, using his own momentum to bring him to his knees. The man groaned, but his free arm slipped around her leg, and suddenly Margot found herself crashing to the floor, her head hitting the corner of a low table as she fell.

Her vision exploded in white light for a moment. She couldn't see, but she felt the man move over her, grabbing for her throat. She deflected his hand with a sweep of her arm, kicking downward with her good leg, catching him in the knee and rolling swiftly away.

Margot stood quickly, using the table to help lift herself. She didn't give the man time to recover and get to his feet. She grabbed his head and yanked it downward, thrusting her knee up to meet his face. The two connected with bone-shattering force and the man collapsed limply onto his back, blood pouring from his nose.

She rubbed her knee with a grimace, wincing a little as she looked up at Mooney. "Satisfied?" she inquired in a growl.

Mooney was smiling. "I could use someone like you," she said.

Margot shook her head emphatically. She was done pussyfooting around. "I'm not here for work. I'm here for a loan. I need twenty grand. If I can't pay it back by next year, then you can put me to use, but not before then."

The woman eyed her serenely, thoughtfully. Then she shrugged. "In that case, I'm afraid I can't help you."

"What?" Margot exclaimed angrily. "But I just—"

"I'd be happy to loan you the money, Margaret, but I also happen to have a need for people with certain skills, ones that you have demonstrated quite effectively to me. If you're not willing to help me out, not even a little bit…well, I'm afraid we have no business together."

"I can't," Margot said hoarsely.

Mooney sighed and rested a hand on her hip. "Tell me, Margaret, why do you need this money?"

"My mother's sick, and I can't pay for her care."

"I see. Do you love your mother, Margaret?"

"Of course I do."

"Then help her," Mooney replied in a silky voice. "I'm perfectly willing to work out an arrangement with you, my dear. I'll loan you the money. In the meantime, you'll do some work for me, and I'll take your payment out of your remaining balance. You could have the entire loan paid off in a matter of months."

Margot stared into those brown almond eyes. "I won't break the law for you."

Mooney laughed. "The law, my dear, is not an immutable line. It shifts. Do what I ask, and I promise nothing will happen to you. And when your debt is paid off, you can walk away and forget that we ever had this conversation." Her eyes narrowed, and she went in for the kill. "Think of your mother, Margaret. Help me to help you."

Her throat tight, Margot inquired softly, "What do you need me to do?"

"Oh, I'll decide that when the time comes. For now, do we have an agreement?"

Margot hesitated for a moment. She didn't really have much of a choice, and her hope of a lifeline was slowly disappearing as the woman watching her grew increasingly impatient. Margot nodded once. "Yes."

"Very well. I'll have someone draw up the paperwork. It should be done by next week." She retreated back to her desk, stepping over the unconscious bodyguard. "In the meantime, take this. Consider it a starting bonus." She reached into a drawer and removed a strap of twenties, pushing it across the desk.

Margot took it and pocketed the money quickly, leaving without a goodbye, trying to rid herself of the bitter taste in her mouth.

At least now she could buy a new helmet and fix her headlight.

* * *

Margot returned a week later to sign the papers. Freddie was there, and apparently he'd been told to expect her. He handed her a slim folder and showed her the papers inside, explaining the terms to her. Twenty-thousand dollars' cash would be paid immediately to Margot, to be paid back with interest, for a total of twenty-two-thousand dollars on that date the next year. For every job that she did for Mooney, the payment would be taken out of her debt.

She knew she didn't have a choice—her mother needed those visits, the medicine, food, and a roof over her head. But it still felt as if Margot was signing away her soul as she lowered her pen to the paper and scribbled her name. She left the club with two straps of hundred-dollar bills in her pockets. Twenty-thousand dollars. She should have been relieved.

But she couldn't rid herself of the dread in her gut.


	8. Chapter Seven

_"Every morning  
_ _I'm staring shadows in the eye.  
_ _Oh, good morning,  
_ _Will you just wait until I die?  
_ _We are fallen, we are fallen.  
_ _Now we're just gonna ride it out."_

 _"Fallen" –Imagine Dragons_

* * *

Chapter Seven:

It was difficult for Margot to worry about Mooney as the weeks passed and she didn't hear word from the woman. It seemed as if she'd forgotten about her.

Good.

Margot had other things to worry about anyway, as she tried to balance work and school. She was struggling in her literature class. It didn't sound important, even to her, but she had to pass it to graduate, or else take it again and graduate in the winter instead. Or just drop out of school altogether.

Actually, the idea of not going to school anymore was tempting. She could drop out and work full time at the manor. But she wasn't a quitter—the mere idea set her teeth on edge—and she needed that degree if she was ever going to be anything more than a gardener's assistant. People had already expressed doubts about her. At almost thirty years of age, she was too old, a late start, and people her age weren't as successful in college. What did a Marine know about plants? Even when she had started to become noticed by the professors, including the head of the department, people had said it was because of her limp. She was a handicapped veteran, and that was all there was to it.

Margot was determined to prove them wrong.

Unfortunately, Brit Lit was still kicking her ass.

She was in the kitchen one afternoon, doing a reading for class since she'd finished her work early and didn't feel ready to go home yet. At home, she never got any studying done, too busy caring for her mother.

She suddenly heard the door swing open, but didn't glance up to see who it was. Footsteps approached, and somebody sat across the table from her.

Margot looked up and was surprised to see Bruce staring curiously at her.

She jumped a little, embarrassed to be caught loitering in the kitchen. "You shouldn't be here," she blurted.

Bruce's brow furrowed slightly. "Why not?" he asked, adding with a small smile, "It is my house, after all."

"Right, I know that," she replied, flustered. "I just… I was under the impression that you didn't come down here."

"Because the kitchen is for servants?" he retorted with a hint of amusement.

She let out a soft laugh. "I suppose it sounds a little absurd when you put it that way."

"Not to mention antiquated," he muttered, peering down at the book that lay open in front of her. "What are you studying?"

"Beowulf," Margot groaned softly, running a hand through her hair. "It's for my Brit Lit class. I hate literature."

"You don't like literature?" the boy asked. "Why are you taking the class then?"

"It's required, and I'm failing," she explained.

"Alfred knows a lot about literature," Bruce suggested. "You should ask him to help you."

Margot regarded him with an amused smile. "I'm sure Alfred has better things to do, like keeping track of you."

"I could help you," he responded helpfully, not to be deterred.

"And what exactly do you know about Beowulf?"

"I know plenty of things. I like reading. I can add it to my curriculum. Alfred will teach me and I'll teach you."

"I thought you went back to school," Margot pointed out.

Bruce frowned slightly and glanced down. "I did," he replied softly. "Alfred and I decided that it would be more profitable to continue my studies here for now."

"I see." She didn't press further, sensing that something unpleasant must have happened.

He looked up again and insisted, "I'll tell Alfred to add Beowulf to our curriculum tomorrow."

Margot snorted softly. "Seems simpler just to watch the movie," she muttered.

Bruce smiled. "We could do that, too."

"Why would you want to waste your time watching a boring old movie?" she inquired curiously.

He shrugged. "I don't know," he said mildly. "We have a theater, though. It hasn't been used in a while. Maybe it's time."

She was surprised by the young man's resolve, and a little touched by his concern. "All right," she gave in. "How about Sunday night? I'll come by after dinner."

"Stay for dinner," the boy suggested.

"I can't," she replied apologetically. "I have to check in on my mom first."

Bruce nodded with understanding. "Very well. Sunday at eight then." He rose from his chair and turned to leave, but then he paused for a moment. "That Metallica CD you left behind the other day, I liked it."

Margot smiled. "Some of their music is a bit dated, but they're a classic. I've got more where that came from, if you're interested."

"Yes," he said, turning back to her for a moment and smiling. "I think I'd like that. Thank you, Ms. Vallant."

"Margot," she told him. "You can call me 'Margot'."

He nodded and disappeared quietly, leaving Margot to wonder why he seemed so anxious to help her, to interact with her, the gardener's assistant.

 _Because, idiot_ , she told herself, _he's lonely_.

Of course. He wasn't in school, he'd never had friends over as far as she knew, and lately he'd been wrapped up in whatever project it was that had consumed the study with files and papers and boxes. Sometimes she forgot just how young he really was, distracted by his cerebral vocabulary and serious mannerisms. He wasn't a small adult. He was just a kid, and he still needed people.

* * *

Alfred greeted Margot at the door that Sunday, stepping aside to let her enter, muttering, "You're late."

"Some shit-for-brains driver swerved his truck into me and almost sent me off the bridge," she grumbled in reply, shaking her jacket off and handing it to the man.

"With your constant commuting from the city, perhaps a motorbike isn't the wisest choice of vehicle," Alfred pointed out.

"It's that or the bus," she retorted bad-temperedly.

The butler judiciously refrained from responding. He simply led Margot back to the theater room, where Bruce was already waiting.

"Margot," the boy greeted her with a smile. "Alfred, could you make some popcorn?"

Alfred seemed a bit surprised, but he quickly responded with a curt nod. "Of course, Master B."

"I brought you something," she told the boy as the butler left. She opened the paper bag she was holding and pulled out a collection of CDs. Uriah Heep, AC/DC, Iron Maiden.

While Bruce went through the CDs, Margot spent a moment admiring the room. Set down a couple of steps, she could tell by the dead acoustics of the room that it was well insulated. The lights were set on a dimmer—she knew because she touched the switch, curiously sliding it up and down. The projector was already on, showing the title screen on the blank wall that served as a screen. The chairs were wide, deep, and soft. Margot sank into one of them and sighed.

"I could get used to this," she murmured with a smile, pulling a box of caramels from within the paper bag, which she crumpled up and stuffed in her back pocket. "Want one?" She offered a caramel to Bruce.

He took one, chewing on it thoughtfully as he gazed at the CD covers. "Who introduced you to all this music?" he inquired curiously.

"My dad," Margot replied. "He loved the stuff."

Bruce frowned a little. "My father preferred classical music."

Seeing the melancholy in the boy's eyes, Margot replied, "Have you heard Beethoven? He's practically the heavy metal master of the nineteenth century. Just look at the guy's hair."

The boy smiled and let a soft laugh out through his nose. "I suppose," he agreed mildly, settling back into his chair. He almost disappeared in its depths, and Margot laughed.

"What?" he inquired.

Before she could reply, Alfred returned, carrying a tray with three bowls of popcorn. "Here you are, Master Bruce." He offered the boy a bowl before handing one to Margot.

"Will you be joining us then, Alfred?" inquired Bruce.

"I don't see why not," the butler replied.

Margot thought she caught a bit of a smile on the man's face. It wasn't nearly as difficult to see the smile that lit up Bruce's face as he said, "Turn down the lights then, please, Alfred, and sit down. The movie's starting."

Margot curled up deeper into the chair and watched as the movie began. It wasn't half as boring as she'd thought it would be. She watched with interest, absently mixing some of her caramels into her popcorn.

"What are you doing?" Bruce whispered, leaning over the armrest of his chair. "What's that?"

Margot glanced up at him in surprise, then back down at her bowl of popcorn. "Popcorn to get stuck in your teeth, and caramels to stick your teeth together," she replied with a smile. "Try it."

Bruce tentatively took a handful of the caramels she offered him and dropped them in his popcorn. He made a face when he tried it for the first time, but she noticed that he kept eating as the movie continued.

And Alfred had worried that the boy was going to starve himself.

She watched the butler curiously, noticing the way he kept shooting glances at Bruce. It wasn't a sense of duty that kept him there, constantly watching over the boy. If that had been the case, he wouldn't have worried so much. There was deep care and concern in the man's eyes whenever he looked at Bruce. She remembered what Mr. Harrison had said about them. They really were like family.

A sudden shout onscreen distracted Margot, and she turned her attention back to the movie, only to have her concentration interrupted again.

"Bit gory, innit?" Alfred noted with a hint of disapproval as one of the action sequences ended and the movie quieted down a bit.

"It's fine, Alfred," Bruce responded. "Or are you squeamish?"

"Let me tell you about blood, mate—" Alfred retorted.

"Shh!" Bruce interrupted. "They're fighting again!"

"Lovely," said the butler, but he fell silent for a while.

Of course, by that point, Margot couldn't help but mutter dryly, "Beowulf seems to have a proclivity for running naked into fights."

"Yes. I don't see the reason for not using every advantage he has," Bruce agreed. "Armor would certainly be beneficial in this situation."

"Have neither of you been paying attention?" Alfred cut in irritably. "He's prideful. He hides it behind the excuse of leveling the playing field, but it's pride that's his downfall in the end." He paused and then ensconced himself deeper into his chair, adding darkly, "This is nothing like the book."

"This is only for aesthetic purposes, Alfred. We—I'm not going to write an essay based on—"

"Shh!" Margot suddenly interrupted. "I'm trying to listen to the naked demon lady."

"What?" Bruce exclaimed, blushing a little as he glanced back at the screen.

"Is this really approp—" Alfred began.

" _Shh_!" Both Margot and Bruce hushed the man, who simply leaned back in his chair with a grumble.

It wasn't a particularly long movie, but by the time it was over, Margot glanced over at Bruce to ask what he thought, and realized that the boy was asleep, curled up in his chair, his face pressed against the armrest. She glanced over at Alfred and caught the man smiling.

As soon as he noticed her staring, the smile disappeared. He rose quietly, beckoning her silently outside. Margot followed him into the corridor, expecting a scolding.

Instead, he slowly turned to her and said softly, "Thank you, Miss Vallant. The boy hasn't done something so normal in a long time."

Stunned, Margot couldn't think of anything to say. She simply stared stupidly at the man.

Alfred cocked his head to the side, raising his brow a little and adding sternly, "Though I will say, your taste in film is questionable at best."

The jibe jerked Margot out of her shock like a swift kick in the leg. "Maybe," she responded, "but it may just help me on my literature exam."

Alfred seemed a bit taken aback. He frowned curiously and inquired with a hint of suspicion, "You wouldn't be the reason for Master Bruce's sudden interest in Old English epics now, would you?"

Margot made a show of glancing at her watch. "My God, it's late," she muttered. "I'm sorry, Mr. Pennyworth, but I really should be going."

He stopped her with a hand. "Alfred, please."

She stared up at him, speechless for the second time that night.

The man took a step forward, and clarified, "Call me 'Alfred', Miss Vallant."

"Margot," she replied, not knowing what else to say.

Alfred inclined his head and clasped his hands behind his back. "Well, I'd best get the boy up to bed now. Shall I see you out?"

"I'll let myself out," Margot replied. "And please tell Bruce I'm sorry I had to sneak away."

"I'll do that. Goodnight." He turned away, then paused, glancing over his shoulder at her. "I wouldn't use the film as a substitute for studying. They got it all wrong."

And with that, Alfred disappeared back into the theater, and Margot let herself out into the chilly night, still confused and shocked and frankly a little pleased by the strange turn of events. Alfred thanking her. Alfred smiling at her. Alfred letting her call him 'Alfred', as if she'd somehow finally managed to earn even the smallest bit of respect from the man.

She could live with that.

* * *

 _A/N: I don't know if this chapter really fits in well with the whole tone I was going for, but I still included it because for some reason it reminded me of MST3K, and I seem to have a soft spot for three people making random commentary about strange movies…_


	9. Chapter Eight

_"Come a long way  
Just to say  
Doesn't matter when it mattered yesterday,  
And tomorrow ain't too far.  
Come a long way  
From small beginnings  
_ _Come big endings."_

 _"Pilgrim" –Fink_

* * *

Chapter Eight:

The unmarked black car returned twice the next week. The second time, not only the detective stepped out of the vehicle, but a familiar girl. Margot recognized her almost immediately as the girl that she'd caught prowling the grounds before.

Cat.

She asked Mr. Harrison about it, hoping he'd know, since he lived at the manor and actually had real conversations with Alfred, who seemed to know all the goings on.

The man simply shrugged when she asked and told her to hand him the spade.

She did so, watching as he dug a hole for one of the new birch trees they were going to plant over the weekend.

Finally, the man glanced up at her, wiped his brow, and handed her the spade. "Why don't you do the next one?"

She took the spade and began to dig.

"I hear that girl saw the Waynes' killer," he said.

"I thought they solved that case," Margot responded with a frown.

"I guess not. Alfred wants us to be nice to her if we happen to see her. I suppose he doesn't want us scaring her off."

Margot snorted. "Because we're so scary."

Mr. Harrison laughed, "I don't know, Margot. With that spade and that limp, you kind of look like a gravedigger."

She let out an offended exclamation, but laughed as well. "All right, all right. Here," she said, handing the spade back to the man. "I need a drink. Do you want anything?"

The man shook his head. "I'll just be out here, slaving away while my assistant sits on her ass, having a cold drink."

"I'll bring you back a Coke."

"Thank you."

Margot went around the back of the house, noticing Alfred and Bruce in the distance. It looked like they were boxing. She watched curiously for a few moments before she turned and disappeared inside.

The kitchen, she found, was already occupied.

Cat looked up abruptly as Margot entered, crouching as if she were preparing to run. Of course, when she saw who it was, she loosened up a bit and smiled.

"You're the gimpy gardener."

"Yeah, that's me," Margot replied calmly as she went to the fridge. "And you're that creepy skulking kid." She pulled a can of Coke from the fridge and popped it open, taking a long swig. "I heard you were staying here," she added, plinking the can down on the table.

"Yeah. So?"

"How do you like it?"

Cat shrugged. "It's all right, but I'm hungry."

Margot opened the fridge again. "I can make you something if you want."

The girl regarded her curiously. "Do you live here?"

"No, but it's not like anybody's going to notice if I help myself now and then."

"The kid's butler might."

Margot snorted, imagining Alfred doing an inventory of the food in the kitchen. It was almost too easy to picture. "I'm sure he does."

"Does he always have a stick up his butt?" Cat inquired with a frown.

Margot laughed loudly. "You get used to him. How about some eggs and toast? A sandwich?"

"Pancakes," replied Cat. "And a big glass of milk."

She looked at the girl for a few moments before nodding. "All right, then. Help me find everything." She rifled through the refrigerator and pulled out the butter, milk, and eggs.

Cat found a bowl and a whisk for her, as well as a pan to put on the stove.

"I have to warn you, I haven't made pancakes in a long time," Margot said as she rummaged through the cupboards and the pantry for the rest of the ingredients. Flour and sugar and salt were all neatly kept in bins that were labeled clearly. She had to admit that she appreciated Alfred's sense of tidiness.

"I haven't had them in a long time," replied Cat with a shrug. "Just don't make them lumpy."

"I'll do my best," said Margot, reaching for the apron that hung on a hook in the corner and slipping it over her head on a whim.

She didn't use a recipe, trying to do it for memory and eyeball all of the measurements. She knew it would probably be a disaster, but it wasn't as if she were cooking for somebody discerning like Bruce. It was just Cat, who for some reason reminded Margot a little of herself as a kid.

"So," she commented absently as she mixed. "What are you doing here?"

Cat leaned on the counter and watched quietly. "I don't know," she responded. "I thought it would be a nice place to stay."

"And?" asked Margot with a raised brow.

The girl sighed. "It's kind of like a museum. And the kid's weird."

Margot laughed softly. "He grows on you."

"I guess."

Glancing at the girl, she asked, "Where's your family? Why aren't you with them?"

Cat avoided her gaze, pushing off of the counter and wandering slowly around the kitchen. "My mom's not around right now." She looked up quickly and added emphatically, "But she's coming back for me when she can."

Margot nodded understandingly, though she got the feeling that things were as simple as Cat made them sound. "Cool."

"Yeah," agreed Cat with a nod. "What about you? Do you have family?"

"My mom," said Margot. "She used to be a bartender," she added reminiscently. "I'd go hang out with her at work after school."

"Did she let you taste anything?"

"Yeah," Margot replied. "The peanuts."

She poured a dollop of batter into the pan and waited impatiently for it to cook, absently dusting the flour from the apron, frowning when all she succeeded in doing was to spread it around.

"Who wears a black apron?" she grumbled quietly to herself.

"Hey!" Cat exclaimed, pointing at the pan. "Flip it before it burns!"

Margot grabbed the spatula and jammed it under the pancake, only to realize that she'd forgotten to spray the pan first. She ended up with a half-cooked glob of batter and broken pancake pieces.

"I'm not eating that," said Cat with disgust.

"Calm down, I'm throwing it away," Margot retorted, scraping it into the garbage. "The first pancake is always bad anyway," she added.

This time, she remembered to spray the pan. It wasn't very long before she'd accumulated a small stack of semi-round pancakes on a plate.

"Go find some syrup," Margot said as she poured the last pancake.

The girl climbed up onto the counter, rummaging through the cupboards, leaving a disordered clutter in her wake. Finally, she turned and looked down at Margot with a grimace. "All I found was this."

Margot reached for the bottle the girl handed her and cursed. Maple extract. "Of course," she growled. "It can never be easy, can it?"

She flipped the pancake, then searched for a pot. Brown sugar and water went into it, as well as a pat of butter.

"What are you doing?"

"Making you some syrup," Margot explained.

"I don't need syrup," Cat said with a shrug, grabbing the pan and sliding the last pancake onto her plate, which she took to the table.

"Now you tell me." Margot frowned and irritably turned off the stove.

The girl pulled off a bit of pancake and chewed on it thoughtfully before nodding approvingly. "It's good."

Rifling through the cupboards, Margot pulled down a jar of peanut butter and sent it sliding across the table towards Cat. "Try them with this." She recalled her own mother spreading peanut butter on her pancakes for her, and topping them with syrup. It was one of the few ways Margot could stand to eat peanut butter.

Cat tore off another piece of pancake and dipped it straight into the jar, leaving crumbs in the peanut butter.

Margot smiled a little, wondering what Alfred would think of that.

Speaking of Alfred, she felt a little twinge of panic as she gazed at the kitchen, realizing the mess she and Cat had left behind. Cat was busy eating her pancakes, so Margot hurriedly began to clean up after herself, wiping down the counters, washing and drying the dishes, trying to remember where everything went.

She had just swept up the last of the flour on the floor when the kitchen door swung open and Alfred stepped through, probably with the intent of preparing lunch. He stopped and surveyed the room, immediately spotting Cat at the table and Margot by the counter, dustpan in hand. His hands went behind his back, his brow rising, and his feet clicking together.

For a moment, everything seemed frozen, and nobody said a word.

Cat suddenly rose, muttering, "I'm out" as she slipped past Margot and disappeared through the back door.

Alfred slowly entered, passing by the table, eyeing the half-eaten pancakes, the jar of peanut butter with the crumbs in it, the empty glass of milk. "So you're the girl's personal chef now, are you?" he inquired softly, glancing up at Margot.

"I came for a drink," she explained. "She said she was hungry and she wanted pancakes."

The man's eyes flickered over the counters, the sink, the table. "Well, at least you clean up after yourself," he murmured. His gaze finally landed on the apron she was wearing, noticing the streaks of flour on it. "Though I shudder to think what I would have seen had I been here fifteen minutes ago."

"Trust me," replied Margot, thinking of the footprints she'd had to wipe off the counter, "be glad you weren't." She emptied the dustpan and returned it to its place in the closet with all the other cleaning supplies. "Sorry about the apron," she added remorsefully as she removed it.

Alfred took it from her. "It's about time to wash the bloody thing anyway," he responded with a sigh.

Margot smiled and reached for her Coke, taking a sip. "So," she began conversationally, "What are you going to do now that you have two kids to look after? Maybe you should just turn Wayne Manor into an orphanage," she joked. "Bring all the inner city kids out here."

The man looked up at her. "You can leave now," he told her firmly, indicating the door with a nod of his head.

Margot was almost intimidated, but she thought she saw a faint glimmer of amusement in the man's eyes. She turned away, pulling another Coke from the fridge, well aware that Alfred was watching her as she strolled from the kitchen.

* * *

It was dark by the time Margot left, her boots quietly clomping on the cobblestone of the driveway. She jammed her helmet on and climbed onto her bike, making it to the gate before she stopped, catching sight of a figure crouching on top of the wall. She shut the engine off and removed her helmet.

"Thanks for the pancakes," Cat called down from her perch.

Margot approached the wall, running the last few feet and using her momentum to jump up and grab the ledge at the top. She pulled herself up and joined the girl.

"Not bad for an old lady," Cat commented with a sly smile.

"This old lady's still big enough to push you off this wall," Margot retorted.

"Try it," the girl challenged her.

Margot shook her head with a grin, giving the girl an amicable shove. She didn't even flinch.

"What are you doing out here?" Margot asked after a moment, swinging her legs lazily.

Cat shrugged. "It's so…peopley in there."

Margot laughed, "It's just Bruce and Alfred."

"Yeah, but they're _always_ around." She sighed, "I don't know. Maybe I just like being outside, on my own."

"Sure," Margot agreed. "I go riding when I want to be alone. I don't have to be around people—it's just me, the bike, and the road." She glanced at the girl and had a curious idea. "How would you like to go on a ride with me?"

Cat perked up a little. "Really? I mean…I guess that would be cool."

Margot nodded and dropped down off the wall, careful not to land too heavily on her lame leg. The girl followed, landing almost silently.

She led her to the bike, handing her the helmet. "Put this on."

Cat slipped it over her head, looking around curiously. Margot straddled the bike and patted the space behind her. The girl jumped on, and Margot warned her over her shoulder, "Hold on tight."

The bike revved to life, and Margot sped through the gate, heading out to the main road, which was practically deserted. She urged the bike to go faster, grinning as she listened to Cat's muffled exclamations of wonder.

The moon peeked through the clouds, nearly full, and the city's lights glowed in the near distance, making the sky glow in a strange combination of orange and silver. It was otherworldly. Margot drove down by the river, where the city was reflected in the water—a city of lights and mystery: perfect, but slightly blurry if one looked too close.

They looped back and returned to the manor a different way, taking the long way around. Margot stopped at the front door and shut the motor off.

Cat leapt off and pulled the helmet from her head, shaking her hair out. "That was so—! It was—! I can't even—!" Finally, the girl just dropped the helmet and fell into Margot, squeezing her in a tight, brief embrace.

Margot smiled. "If you ever want another ride, come find me."

The girl retreated towards the house, nodding eagerly. "Thanks, gimpy!"

"Don't cause too much trouble!" she responded.

"'Night!"

And with that, the girl disappeared inside, entering not through the door, but through a window that had been left unlocked.


	10. Chapter Nine

_A/N: This chapter goes along with the events of episode 10 of the first season, when the assassins hit up Wayne Manor. Since there's no explicit mention of time (except that there's no snow and the trees are green), I'm being a little free with the timeline here and probably fudging it a bit. Anyway…hope you enjoy reading._

* * *

 _"I haven't spoke of bad times,  
I have no use.  
Erase the memories—  
It's something I must do."_

 _"Sick of it" –Evans Blue_

* * *

Chapter Nine:

The manor was quiet as Margot got off her bike and walked around back, expecting to find Mr. Harrison waiting for her in the toolshed. It was empty. Frowning, she checked her watch, wondering if he'd already started work without her. No, she wasn't late.

Perhaps he was just anxious to get started.

Checking the schedule—just a bunch of notes scrawled on a wrinkled piece of paper on a clipboard—Margot understood why. They were supposed to be pruning the hedges on the west side of the grounds. It was always a long, arduous job.

Sighing, she grabbed the trimmers and made her way out towards the hedge.

"Mr. Harrison!" she called out, hoping he'd call back. She didn't feel like searching through the shrubbery for him.

She heard a scuffle somewhere nearby, a rustling on the other side of the hedge. It sounded more like a startled deer than Mr. Harrison. Still, she made her way around to investigate.

"Mr. Harrison?"

Margot turned the corner and stopped cold, her limbs rigid as her gaze landed on the body half-obscured in the hedge.

"Mr. Harrison!"

She ran forward and crouched by the man, feeling for a pulse. He was gone, his eyes staring blankly up at the sky, blood soaking the front of his shirt. He was still warm.

A gunshot suddenly rang out, echoing in the quiet morning air. It came from the house.

Rising quickly, Margot raced towards the manor, her feet pounding unevenly over the ground. She urged herself to go faster, feeling her thighs burn, her knee protesting painfully. What if she was too late? What if that gunshot had just killed Alfred? Bruce? Cat?

More gunshots rang out, farther from the manor this time, somewhere off to her left. Margot veered towards them, her heart hammering, her breath catching high in her throat, her leg threatening to give out.

 _Faster, you weak, fucking maggot!_

"BRUCE!"

God! That was Alfred's voice. Margot crashed through the last hedge and nearly tripped over a body on the ground. She didn't know the man. Christ. For a moment she'd thought it was—

Alfred, just paces away, whirled on her, gun raised. She stopped and threw up her hands.

Recognizing her, he lowered the gun.

"What the hell is going on?" she demanded as she approached. "You're bleeding, Alfred!"

"They're out there," he replied, waving her off and pointing emphatically. "Master Bruce and the girl."

Margot immediately began to run in the direction he'd pointed.

"There are two armed assassins after them!" Alfred told her as he joined her.

She whirled on him. "You're hurt, go back!"

"Not bloody likely!" the man responded, pushing past her.

They searched the woods frantically, calling out to Bruce and Cat, but it soon became clear to Margot that they weren't there.

"They're long gone. We need to go back and call the police," she told Alfred.

The man ignored her. "Bruce!" he bellowed.

Margot stepped in front of him, forcing him to stop. "We need to call the police!"

"Do it then!" he growled at her. "I'll keep looking."

"You're injured!" she pointed out, holding him back with a firm hand on his chest. "Are you really going to be any good against two armed assassins?"

The man gave her a long, steady stare. "I'll be fine," he insisted. "Go." When Margot still didn't move, he barked, " _Go_!"

Realizing that short of shooting the man in the leg, she wouldn't be able to stop him, she leveled one last reproachful glare at him before running back towards the manor. Somebody had to call the authorities.

The police arrived after a grueling twenty-three minutes, meeting Margot at the front door.

She recognized the one at the head, the same detective that had visited many times before. Detective Gordon.

"Where are they?" he demanded without introduction.

Margot pointed towards the woods. "Bruce and Cat ran that way. Alfred's out there searching for them."

The man nodded and touched her shoulder as he said, "Stay here. Officer Burns will take your statement." Then he turned to the other units that had arrived with him, leading them out into the woods.

Margot sunk down on the stairs as Officer Burns approached and asked, "What happened, Ma'am?"

She felt surprisingly calm as she relayed what she'd seen back to the officer. Mr. Harrison. The gunshots. The body. Alfred. But her whole body was trembling, and she knew that the shock wouldn't last long. Soon the events would lose their dreamlike quality and become all too real.

She heard quarrelsome voices approaching and glanced up to see Detective Gordon and his partner with Alfred in tow.

"We have every available unit out searching for them," she heard the detective insist.

"They're not going to bloody find them!" protested Alfred.

"Which is why we need you here, giving us a statement, so that we can find the people that are after them," Gordon responded, adding with firm reassurance, "We'll find them, Alfred."

Margot watched as the men approached, saw the fight go out of Alfred for a moment, replaced by the heavy weight of despair as it bowed his shoulders and deepened the creases on his face. A moment later, though, the man had straightened again, his eyes narrowed and fierce as he passed by, taking the lead as he showed the others inside.

Margot stood, intending to follow.

Detective Gordon's partner noticed her and turned to Officer Burns. "Did you get everything from her?"

The officer looked at Margot, who nodded.

"Good." Turning to her, the detective rested his hand on her shoulder, looked her in the eye, and told her, "Go home. We'll contact you if we need anything else."

Margot hesitated, glancing past him at the men that were swiftly retreating. But then she nodded and turned away, hearing the man ask Officer Burns, "Where are the bodies?"

The bodies. _Mr. Harrison,_ she wanted to shout at the man. _His name was Mr. Harrison!_ But she didn't say anything. She just walked away.

She could still feel the detective's hand on her shoulder as she limped towards her motorbike, pushing it past the squad cars and officers. She threw her leg over it and sped down the driveway. Were they trained to do that, the detectives? Touch people's shoulders reassuringly? Was it supposed to calm them?

It hadn't calmed her.

She was still shaking, still wrestling with the numbness inside of her, wanting to push it out, but afraid of what would fill the void.

All she knew was that she couldn't go home.

She turned onto the main road and followed it up through the woods, casting anxious glances into the trees that lined the road, hoping to see the two familiar figures of Bruce and Cat. When she didn't see any sign of them, she took the road down to the river, wondering if maybe they'd run that way, towards the city.

If they were there, she didn't see them. They were probably staying off the roads. She had to remind herself that maybe that was a good thing. If she couldn't find them, then it meant the assassins might not have found them yet either. Cat had struck Margot as a resourceful girl, someone who was used to running. She only hoped that it would be enough.

Her motorbike spluttered to a stop a couple of miles from the bridge. In her panic, Margot had forgotten that she was low on fuel. Anger flared up out of the pit of numbness inside her, and she leapt from the bike, pushing it to the ground, throwing her helmet into the grass on the side of the road, and stalking in tight, concentric circles as she tried to think.

"God!" she shouted to the sky, feeling the word rip through her tight throat, creating an opening large enough for all her emotions to escape through, which they all tried to do at once. She fell to her knees and pounded the ground with her fists, feeling the asphalt scrape her knuckles raw, as she replayed the scene in her head.

Mr. Harrison: his front soaked with blood, mouth slightly open as if he'd intended to say something before he died. Alfred: his arm hanging limply at his side, blood oozing down his fingers, the intensity of his expression burned into her mind. Bruce and Cat. Where were they? Hiding? Taken? Dead?

"Stop it," she told herself firmly, wiping her bloodied hands on her pants and pulling herself painfully to her feet. There was no point in speculating.

Margot retrieved her helmet and pushed her motorbike along the road, across the bridge into the city, stopping at the first gas station she saw. She filled up, then rode back over the bridge, making another pass through the woods, down by the river. Still no sign of Bruce and Cat. By then, it was more for her sake than out of any hope of actually finding them.

Night came, and Margot had been driving for hours, back and forth like some banshee haunting the road between the city proper and Bristol County, where Wayne Manor resided. Finally, sore and tired and still trembling, Margot reluctantly turned towards home.

Her mother was already sleeping when she entered, for which Margot felt no small amount of gratitude. The last thing she wanted was to talk to anyone. She went to the kitchen and rummaged through the cupboards, pouring herself a glass of whiskey. Her hand shook, and the amber liquid spilled over the edge, sloshing on the counter as she raised the glass to her lips and drank deeply.

She uttered a long, shuddering sigh and closed her eyes momentarily, pausing to take a breath, feeling as if she hadn't inhaled all day long. Glass in hand, she stumbled to her room, where she collapsed on her bed without undressing, finishing her whiskey and staring up at the ceiling. Images of the morning played across the ceiling as if it were a video and her eyes were projecting it straight from her mind. It kept replaying the same two images. Mr. Harrison, staring blankly at her. Alfred, bloodied and panicked.

When her eyes closed, though, she saw something different. She found herself in a hospital wing, sitting beside a man, watching his vitals on the monitor as they slowly grew fainter and fainter, finally going completely flat.

Boswell, the man who had died in a hospital halfway across the world, with nobody at his side but Margot, who'd only known him for a few weeks—long enough to know that he was twenty-three years old, had a girlfriend and a daughter, was a pessimist and a realist, loved Oreos, and didn't want to die alone.

That's why she'd been there, in a wheelchair herself, holding his hand while he slipped away. And she'd promised that she'd never lose anybody else ever again, because that was war, and she'd left it behind, traveling to the other side of the world to escape it. Except she hadn't escaped it.

She'd never escape it.

* * *

A persistent buzzing woke Margot from the nightmares. She reached out blearily, patting the bedside table, the mattress, her pockets, searching for her phone. She found it on the floor.

"Hello?" she croaked.

"Margot," said Alfred, sounding very much awake.

She glanced at the clock, which read 4:47.

"Forgive the early call, but I thought you should know that we've found Master Bruce. He's safe and sound here at home."

Margot sat up abruptly and let out a relieved gasp. "My God. And the girl?"

"Slipped away, vanished without a trace," he replied calmly. "I suspect the little minx has things sorted." There was a pause, and then he continued, "The reason I rang you so early is to let you know that I'll be taking Master Bruce away for a few weeks."

"Of course. Yes, I understand."

"Take whatever time you need for yourself, Margot. We'll discuss things when Bruce and I return."

Margot nodded before realizing that he couldn't see her. "Thank you, Alfred," she said.

The man said something else that she didn't catch, and then the line went dead. She set her phone down and collapsed onto her back, finally letting the tears come free.


	11. Chapter Ten

_"Won't you save me,  
'cause I'm slipping away.  
Just save me from myself,  
'cause all these angry voices  
Are making my choices.  
Please save me from myself."_

 _"Save Me" –Burn Season_

* * *

Chapter Ten:

Somebody was knocking at the door.

"Come in!" called Margot from the kitchen as she stirred dry spaghetti into a pot of hot water.

The knocking continued.

"Come in!" she bellowed.

Still, the knocking didn't stop.

"For God's sake, Margot! Just answer the damn door!" her mother shouted at her.

Cursing, Margot rushed from the kitchen to the door and opened it. "What?" she demanded furiously.

It was Freddie. "Happy to see you too," he stated dryly.

"God," she sighed. "What are you doing here?"

"May I come in?" the man inquired.

Margot was about to invite him in when something stopped her. Peering suspiciously at the man, she asked, "Is this a friendly visit, or is it business related?"

"What do you think?" he retorted.

She sighed, muttering, "Of course." She stepped from the apartment and closed the door behind her. "No, you may not come in. Mooney sent you, didn't she?"

"Shh!" Freddie hissed, glancing around furtively. "Not so loud."

A baby wailed behind one of the doors while a TV blared behind another, but otherwise, the corridor was silent.

"Nobody cares," Margot growled. "Just tell me."

The man carefully reached into the pocket of his jacket, handing her a folded manila envelope. Inside, Margot found a single photo of an unfamiliar man.

"What's this?" she inquired.

"He'll be at the Stacked Deck around 7 PM tonight." Freddie leaned in nearer, permeating Margot's air with his rancid breath as he added, "Mooney wants him gone."

Margot took a step back. "And if I refuse?"

"Don't," he warned her. "Believe me."

There was something in his eyes that Margot couldn't deny, a blend of fear and pleading. "Who is he?" she inquired, indicating the man in the photo.

Freddie laughed nervously. "She said you'd ask. She wants you to know this: he's a criminal, a lowlife. Nobody will care that he's dead. In fact, you'll be doing the city a favor."

"And I'm supposed to believe that?"

"Trust me, it goes over better if you do."

She stared down at the photo for a moment, then looked back up at Freddie.

"Get out of here."

He slinked away, but the feeling of dread that he'd brought with him remained behind.

It seemed the time had come for Margot to start paying off her debt.

* * *

 _You'll be doing the city a favor_.

That's what Margot told herself as she climbed to the roof of the building across from the nightclub.

It was dark, but Margot could assemble her weapon easily by feel. It was a Remington model 700. _For hunting_ it said on her permit, but it was just like the M40 she'd used in the service, as both were built from the same model. The bullet in its casing was as long as Margot's pointer finger, and the magazine held three. She'd only need one, though.

She lowered the bipod and rested its feet against the concrete ledge, peering through the scope and aiming the crosshairs at the club's only exit. She'd already run the numbers through her ballistics calculator. There was a bit of a crosswind to account for, but the target was less than a hundred meters away. It wouldn't be a difficult shot.

Snipers were used to waiting and watching. Margot had once waited for a target for over eight hours, hardly moving from her position. She was good at waiting.

When she saw the target, it was natural for her to adjust her aim, inhale, and squeeze the trigger as she exhaled.

By the time sirens and lights approached, Margot was long gone, leaving nothing behind but the body that bled out onto the pavement.


	12. Chapter Eleven

_"On a cob web afternoon,  
In a room full of emptiness  
By a freeway I confess  
I was lost in the pages of a book full of death;  
Reading how we'll die alone.  
And if we're good we'll lay to rest,  
Anywhere we want to go."_

 _"Like a Stone" –Audioslave_

* * *

Chapter Eleven:

Margot received the call that Bruce and Alfred had returned one unpleasant, drizzly Friday morning. She said she'd be there in a half an hour, finishing her mother's breakfast for her before she threw on her boots and a coat and made her way out into the rain.

The ride felt longer than usual, and Margot found herself almost dreading the return to Wayne Manor. She hadn't been back since that day when Mr. Harrison… Well, she hadn't been back. And now she knew she'd see the familiar grounds, except they'd look abandoned and unkempt, and she'd walk past the hedge where she'd found Mr. Harrison, and she wouldn't be able to get him off her mind.

She made her way dutifully up to the front door and found Alfred already there waiting for her.

"Come in," he invited her, stepping aside to let her pass. She let him take her jacket, which he held up with a flat look, watching the water drip from it. "You didn't swim here, did you?"

Margot smiled weakly, grateful for the joke. It lifted her spirits. "No," she retorted.

He smiled in return and beckoned for her to follow him once he'd hung the jacket up. "I'll fetch you a towel," he suggested as he let her into the study.

"Thank you," she murmured.

He nodded and left, returning promptly with a thick white towel, which he tossed to her. She caught it and was surprised to feel that it was warm, as if he'd slipped it into the dryer for a couple of minutes. Gratefully, Margot dried herself off.

"I don't see why you insist on riding that ridiculous motorbike," he noted, indicating that she take a seat.

She laid the towel down on the chair before she sat. "It was my father's," she explained softly, adding with a touch of humor, "Besides, don't you think it makes me look badass?"

The man snorted. "It makes you look like soon-to-be roadkill is what it does."

"Thanks for your concern," she responded with a dry laugh.

His smile faded a little, and he replied, "Well we can't go losing you too, now, can we?"

Margot stared down at her hands and shook her head. "I suppose not."

"How are you?" Alfred asked quietly.

She glanced up and was surprised to see quite a bit of concern on his face.

When she said nothing, he added, "I know it's been difficult to lose Mr. Harrison. He was a good man."

Margot nodded in agreement. "Does this mean you're going to hire a new gardener?"

Alfred sighed, rocking back and forth on his heels. "Actually, Margot, I was thinking of promoting you."

She nearly slid out of her chair. "What?"

He nodded. "If you feel up to it. It would come with a raise, of course, along with the extra responsibilities."

"I—yes," she stuttered. "Yes, I'll do it."

A small smile crossed the man's weary face. "Glad to hear it. I know the circumstances aren't ideal, but…well, they are what they are." He came around and sat on the edge of the chair across from her, holding her gaze with his piercing blue eyes. "You're a good employee, Margot. We're happy to have you here."

She wanted to smile. There had been a time when she would have given almost anything to hear those words from the stern, difficult-to-please man. But right now, her heart sunk heavily into her gut. She didn't deserve that kind of praise. Not anymore. If he knew what she'd done while they were gone, what she'd done for Mooney, what she would continue to do for the woman, no matter her reasons, her good intentions to help her mother… If he knew, she'd probably be fired. Would he be angry?

Or just disappointed?

Wanting anything but to feel his attention on her, she asked, "How is Bruce?"

Alfred shifted a little. "Master Bruce is doing well. He's relieved to be home. As a matter of fact," the man muttered, reaching into the inside pocket of his coat, "he brought something back for you, asked me to pass it along." He removed a small parcel from his pocket and held it out to Margot.

She took it hesitantly.

"It's just a little trinket, a small token of appreciation for everything you've done."

"Thank you," she whispered.

He nodded once. His eyes flickered up to the clock in the corner of the room, and he sighed and stood. "Well, I suppose if there's nothing else…" He went to the window and noted, "The grounds are looking a bit neglected."

Margot got slowly to her feet, pocketing the parcel. "Back to work," she replied with a weary smile.

"Shall I lend you a mac?" he inquired, eyeing her damp clothing.

She laughed softly and shook her head. "I'll be fine. I've been through worse."

"Quite the stoic, aren't you?" he noted. "Is there a reason you have some aversion to comfort?"

"Marines take pride in being miserable," she told him with a serious expression.

He sighed and shook his head, muttering, "You'll catch your death." But he didn't protest further as she limped towards the door.

"Thank you, Alfred."

He glanced up at her and nodded.

Margot walked out to the shed, feeling a strange heavy sensation grow in her chest as she approached it. Traces of Mr. Harrison were everywhere: his handwriting on the schedule, his prized shears, a half-eaten apple in the trash bin. He'd never been able to finish an entire apple.

She sighed and reached into her back pocket, removing the small package that Alfred had said was from Bruce. She opened it, pulling a silver bookmark from within. It had been engraved with a quote that she recognized from Beowulf. She smiled sadly as she read it.

 _Wise sir, do not grieve. It is always better to avenge dear ones than to indulge in mourning. For every one of us, living in this world means waiting for our end. Let whoever is able win glory before death. When a warrior is gone, that will be his best and only bulwark._

* * *

Margot liked the solitude of gardening, but that day, it felt a little too lonely. She kept catching herself opening her mouth to mention something to Mr. Harrison, tell him a joke she'd heard, ask him what flowers he thought would look good in the front planters. But he wasn't there.

She was relieved to return to the shed that evening, putting everything away with quiet reverence.

"The gardens are already looking better," said a voice from behind, startling her slightly.

"Bruce?" she gasped, whirling around in surprise.

"Forgive me for startling you," said the boy with a small smile as he ducked into the shed.

Margot let out a soft laugh at her own jumpiness. "It's all right." Her brow furrowed, and she added, "I didn't realize you were so stealthy."

The boy's smile widened a little. "I've been practicing. I nearly gave Alfred a heart attack the other day." A laugh escaped him. "I wish you could have seen his face when I jumped from behind the curtains. He scolded me for a good five minutes."

Margot grinned. "I can imagine. Are you glad to be back? How was…?"

"Switzerland," replied Bruce. "Yes, I've been anxious to return for some time now. Alfred and I are going to resume my studies tomorrow." He reached out and curiously traced a finger over the blade of a pair of shears. "That's why I came, actually," he said. "I was going to ask if you still wanted help with your literature class."

"As a matter of fact, we've been studying the Canterbury Tales. I think you'd find them interesting," she told him.

"How so?"

She shrugged. "Well, I think they're entertaining, and I don't even understand half of what's going on. I'd be grateful for the help, if you're willing."

"Of course. I'll speak with Alfred tomorrow."

Margot was still surprised by the boy's capacity for goodness. "Thanks, kid," she said with a grateful smile.

He smiled back at her and nodded. He turned to go, pausing to admit, "I'm glad you're still here. I was afraid you'd leave after what happened."

Margot frowned slightly. "Never, Bruce," she reassured him, adding with a hint of humor, "How would you ever survive without a proper gardener?"

Bruce laughed softly and cast her a look over his shoulder. "Now you sound like Alfred."

Margot laughed as the boy left, knowing he'd meant it as a compliment, but still wondering if that was really a good thing.


	13. Chapter Twelve

_A/N: Double update! These next two chapter I imagine take place during episodes 13-14 of season 1._

* * *

 _"Close your eyes, so many days go by.  
Easy to find what's wrong, harder to find what's right.  
I believe in you, I can show you that I can see right through all your empty lies."_

 _"Dance with the Devil" –Breaking Benjamin_

* * *

Chapter Twelve:

The next day was quite pleasant, warm and sunny, with a brisk little breeze. It was the kind of day that made Margot glad to be working outside.

She was fertilizing the vast green lawn when she caught sight of a familiar figure approaching.

"Good to know you're still hanging around here, gimpy," said Cat as she neared.

Margot smiled. "I could say the same, kid. Are you coming back to stay?"

"Just for a visit," she responded glibly as she sauntered past. She turned and walked backwards towards the manor as she called back to Margot, "When are you going to take me on another ride?"

"Whenever you want."

"How 'bout when I'm done here?"

Margot checked her watch. "Yeah, I suppose I could use a break."

"Cool." Cat grinned and disappeared through a window.

Margot continued to fertilize, realizing how relieved she was that the girl was safe. She hadn't realized it, but Cat had grown on her. Maybe it was just her resemblance to the actual pet cat that Margot had had as a child.

It hadn't been more than a few minutes when Cat reappeared through the window, racing across the grounds as fast as she could go.

"Hey!" Margot shouted to her. "Where are you going?"

The girl didn't respond. She didn't even look at her. She just leapt up over the wall and disappeared.

Margot couldn't help but feel uneasy. She'd never seen the girl so upset. She glanced at the open window, watched the curtains breeze lazily through it as she wondered what had happened.

* * *

Margot was still a little preoccupied with Cat as she made her way to the kitchen, where she'd left her homework after lunch. She found Alfred sitting at the table, quietly nursing what looked like a glass of gin and tonic. He'd undone his waistcoat and rolled up his sleeves, his tie hanging loosely from his neck.

He glanced up when she entered, murmuring with a hint of surprise, "Margot."

"You haven't seen my backpack near here, have you?" she asked, glancing around.

"That wouldn't be the one that smells of fertilizer, would it?" he inquired.

She grimaced wryly and nodded. "Probably."

He slowly got to his feet and reached into the storage closet, pulling her backpack from it. "I nearly tossed the thing," he told her. "It's hardly more than rags."

"Sorry," Margot apologized. "I didn't mean to leave it lying around."

The man shrugged and returned to his place at the table.

Margot was about to turn and leave, but something held her back. She looked at Alfred, noticing the invisible weight that seemed to sit on his hunched shoulders, deepening the creases on his face.

"Is something wrong, Alfred?"

He glanced up and distractedly shook his head. "No," he murmured. "Nothing." A heavy sigh escaped him as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Just a spot of adolescent drama, I suppose."

"I noticed Cat come by earlier," Margot noted. "She left in a hurry."

Alfred scoffed. "Yeah, well…" Sipping at his drink, he continued, "Master Bruce was quite worked up about it."

Margot shrugged and joked softly, "You know how we women are."

Alfred met her gaze with a wry smile. "Cunning, and lairy, and damnably irresistible the lot of you." He extended one leg, pushing a chair out with his foot. "Sit," he invited her.

She sat, mostly out of surprise for even being invited, placing her backpack on the table.

The man nodded at it, his eyes landing on the book that peeked out through a hole in the broken zipper. "I couldn't help but notice that you're studying Chaucer." He took a drink and added, "So is Master Bruce, coincidentally enough. He requested it this morning."

Margot thought she could withstand the suspicious look he leveled at her, but she broke after a few moments. "All right. Yes, it's true. He's been helping me with my lit class."

To her surprise, an amused smile played on Alfred's lips. "Tutoring from a twelve-year-old boy?" he inquired.

"It was his idea," she explained. "He told me you knew all about literature and offered to relay what he learned to me."

Alfred sat forward in his chair, cocking his head curiously to the side. "And you didn't think to come directly to me?"

Margot flushed a little with embarrassment. "Surely you have far more important things to do."

"You wouldn't be wrong there," he agreed. "Still, I've been known to have the occasional free evening once Master Bruce retires for the night. I'd be happy to help."

"You would?" she asked in disbelief.

Alfred finished his drink and turned the empty glass in his hands, staring fixedly at it. "One can always benefit from a rigorous study of the old masters," he told her quietly. Glancing up, he inquired, "Can I offer you a drink?"

Margot was tempted to accept. But then she remembered how late it was, and that her mother was expecting her. Even if she stayed for just one drink, that meant waiting for it to settle before she'd be fit to drive herself home. She shook her head reluctantly. "I really should be getting home." Rising, she shouldered her backpack and regarded the man at the table with a small, grateful smile.

"Thank you, Alfred."

He nodded and watched her go in thoughtful silence.


	14. Chapter Thirteen

_"I'm taking a step back from inside,  
Forsaking the life that I once had.  
I'm making a run from the dark side,  
Replacing night with the sunlight."_

 _"Step Back" –Evans Blue_

* * *

Chapter Thirteen:

It was pouring outside when Bruce approached Margot one cold afternoon, drenched and shivering in just his shirtsleeves.

"Bruce!" she exclaimed when she turned to him. "What are you doing out here? And why aren't you wearing a coat?"

He looked up at her with a serious expression, his arms pressed tightly to his sides. "You were in the army, weren't you?" he inquired.

Margot frowned, a little taken aback by the question. "Marine Corps."

"What did you specialize in, exactly?"

"I was a sniper. Why?"

He shook his head. "Nothing." Bruce paused, and then asked, "If I needed you to do something besides gardening, would you do it?"

Margot hesitated, replying carefully, "That depends." She regarded the boy seriously, then asked abruptly, "Is Alfred bothering you? Do you want me to shoot him in the foot for you?"

Margot's joke worked. A small smile crossed Bruce's face, and he let out a soft laugh. "No, Margot. Thank you. You should come inside," he added, noticing her shiver as rain trickled down the back of her collar. "I'll have Alfred prepare some hot cocoa."

She smiled. "Thanks, Bruce, but I've got work to finish out here. All this rain will only encourage the hedges' unruliness."

"This evening then. I insist."

* * *

Margot dutifully joined Alfred and Bruce in the study that evening, where she was greeted with a pair of smiles and a warm blanket.

"You really need a better coat," Bruce noted as Alfred took hers.

"Yes," agreed Alfred. "People might start to think we pay you peanuts."

She laughed softly and took the seat that was offered to her while Alfred disappeared briefly to hang her coat in the foyer. He had already prepared the cocoa. When he returned, he poured it straight from a tall, slender chocolate pot, adding a generous dollop of whipped cream to each cup and sprinkling it with nutmeg. She noticed he splashed a bit of whiskey into her cup before pouring in the cocoa.

"This ought to revive you after spending the day out in that downpour," he murmured as he handed it to her.

She smiled and took it gratefully.

"How are your studies?" Bruce asked from his place on the sofa. "Have you finished Chaucer yet?"

Margot grimaced, but it was Alfred who answered. "She'd have finished it twice by now if she'd do her reading," he said with a reproachful look at her. "As a student, it seems Miss Vallant has less dedication than a twelve-year-old boy."

"How many 'prithee's and 'doth yonder's am I expected to read through?" Margot retorted. "It's like studying another language."

A slow smile crept over Alfred's face. "Treacle, you have no idea," he responded knowingly.

She simply snorted and sipped at her cocoa.

Bruce watched them with a curious smile. After a moment, he asked, "Margot, do you have any plans for that plot where the hydrangea used to be?"

Alfred shot a glare at the boy, who pointedly ignored him.

Frowning, Margot shook her head. "Not yet. Why?"

"I think you should plant roses," Bruce replied, his eyes briefly darting towards Alfred, who pursed his lips and looked fixedly away.

"I don't see why I can't do that," she said with a shrug. She was about to let it go at that, but her curiosity had been piqued. "What's with all the dirty glares between you two?"

Alfred stiffened and refused to answer.

Bruce had no such qualms. "Alfred has expressed interest in breeding roses. I thought that plot would be perfectly suited for such an endeavor."

"That's the last time I tell you anything," the man growled at the boy, grumbling, "Can't keep one bloody secret."

Margot stared in astonishment at the man. "Rose breeding? What do you know about roses?"

Alfred frowned. "I dabbled a bit," he replied stiffly, glaring at the boy and adding defensively, "It was a long time ago."

"I'll look into it," Margot told him.

Alfred looked at her abruptly. "You will?"

She shrugged. "Sure. If you'd like, I can take you by a nursery sometime. You can have a look at all the varieties."

The man seemed surprised and slightly pleased.

"Why the sudden interest in gardening anyway, Alfred?" teased Bruce with a soft laugh.

"Oi! I'm starting to get the feeling that it's your bedtime, mate," the butler retorted sharply.

Bruce lifted his narrow shoulders in a shrug. "There are some files I'd like to look at anyway," he said calmly, rising to his feet and going to the desk. He tucked a couple of folders under his arm and turned back to Margot and Alfred. "It's been a pleasure, Margot. Goodnight, Alfred."

"Get on, you little bugger," the man growled fondly, watching the boy with a bit of a smile as he left.

Margot hid her own smile behind her cup of cocoa. She and Alfred sat in amicable silence for a while, the only sound that of the fire crackling in the hearth. Discreetly, she watched the butler over the edge of her cup, noticing that he seemed distracted. She also noticed, upon closer inspection, that despite his gray hair and the weathered face with lines of worry creasing it, he wasn't nearly as old as she'd first assumed, back when she'd started working at the manor. He wasn't a young man either—not by a longshot—but there was a certain spark of vitality in his sharp blue eyes, a great deal of spryness in his movement that belied his age. And, she thought vaguely, if he ever relaxed his face and let those ever-present worry lines fade, he could quite possibly be very handsome.

Margot suddenly became aware that his eyes had met hers, and instantly she felt guilty for staring. Hastily, she looked away. Glancing around, she saw that Bruce had made quite a bit of progress through the files she and Alfred had exhumed from storage those several weeks ago. He had all sorts of pictures and documents pinned to a board behind the desk, at which she stared curiously.

"What's that?" she asked, indicating the board with a jerk of her chin.

Alfred followed her gaze. Margot could have sworn she saw him wince a little as he regarded the board seriously. He hesitated, thumbing his lapels and rocking on his feet a bit. Finally, he sighed and explained, "Master Bruce has been investigating his parents' murders."

Margot glanced at the man in shock. "And you haven't stopped him?"

The butler shot an irritated look at her. "You think I haven't tried? You try dissuading the boy."

She fell silent, thinking of some of her more recent encounters with the boy, remembering the solemn determination in his dark eyes. She recalled her brief conversation with him that afternoon.

"Alfred?"

"Hm?"

"I don't think he'd want me to tell you this," she began slowly, "but you should know that Bruce asked me about my service in the Marines today. He wanted to know what I did and, more importantly, if I'd be willing to do something for him."

"What exactly did he want you to do?" asked Alfred suspiciously.

She shrugged. "He didn't say. He only made it clear that it wouldn't be gardening."

Alfred nodded slowly and sighed. "I see." He seemed sad and tired. "Thank you, Margot, for telling me."

She glanced down at her cup, which had been empty for a long time. "I should go."

The man cast a glance at the window. "It's still pouring out there. Are you sure you'll be all right?"

She set her cup on the table and stood. "I've ridden in rain before."

"I'd be happy to give you a lift," Alfred offered.

A soft laugh escaped her. "Thank you for the concern, Alfred, but I'll be fine. We Marines are good at toughing it out." She clicked her feet together, pinned one arm to her side, and raised the other in a mock salute. "'Shut up, straighten up, and quit your bitching'," she growled in a fair imitation of her drill instructor.

Alfred couldn't seem to help a wan smile. "Very well. I'll show you out."

In the foyer, he reached for a coat, holding it open for her.

"This isn't—" Margot began, pointing back at the coatrack, where her coat still hung, dripping on the floor.

"I know," Alfred interrupted, still holding the dry coat out for her. "Take it." When she hesitated, he added, "We can't have you catching a cold now, can we? Then I'd have to trim the hedges, and I'd just as likely raze them to stubble."

"Thanks, Alfred," Margot responded with a laugh, slipping into the coat. It was one of his. She could tell by the fit and the faint smell of his cologne on it. "I'll see you tomorrow."

He opened the door for her, answering as she passed, "Goodnight, Margot."


	15. Chapter Fourteen

_"I wanna hide the truth,  
I wanna shelter you,  
But with the beast inside  
There's nowhere we can hide…  
_ _Don't wanna let you down,  
_ _But I am hell bound.  
_ _Though this is all for you,  
_ _Don't wanna hide the truth."_

 _"Demons" –Imagine Dragons_

* * *

Chapter Fourteen:

Bruce left the manor not long after Margot arrived at work, trekking with stoic resolve out towards the hills, holding his backpack by the straps. Margot watched curiously as he left, hearing footsteps approach her quietly from behind. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Alfred.

He gazed after the boy with a hint of concern on his face.

"Where's he going?"

"Hiking," said Alfred, not tearing his gaze away from the retreating figure. "It's tradition."

Bruce disappeared into the trees, and the man sighed, finally glancing at Margot.

"He'll be gone all day. Perhaps you'd like to do a bit of studying?"

Surprised, Margot protested, "But the gardens—"

"They can wait for an hour or two," replied Alfred with a guarded smile.

"Well, if you're offering." Margot shrugged and followed the man back to the manor. She caught him glancing back a couple of times, not at her but at the woods behind them. She wondered if he was worried about the boy going off on his own, if perhaps that was why he'd offered to help her today. Was she just a distraction to keep his mind off of Bruce?

They settled in the study, Alfred shifting a few folders to make room for Margot's books on the table.

"Right then," he murmured. "On to the Wife of Bath's Tale. I believe that's where we left off." He glanced up at her and added, "You should like this one."

"And why's that?" Margot inquired.

Alfred regarded her calmly. "Did you do your reading?"

"I did, for once."

"Then you wouldn't mind summarizing it now, would you?"

Margot sighed and gave in. "There's this knight, and he rapes this girl, so he's sentenced to death, but the queen steps in and says she'll spare his life, if he can figure out what it is that women most desire. He asks around and finally finds this old hag, who makes him promise to grant her whatever favor she asks if she tells him the answer. So he agrees, and they go back to court, and he tells them that women want power over their husbands. And then she asks him to marry her, and he can't tell her 'no', obviously, so they're married, and he's repulsed by her. She asks if he'd rather have an ugly but faithful wife, or a beautiful and possibly unfaithful wife, and he says it's up to her to decide that—which, of course, is the right answer, so she chooses beauty and faithfulness, and they live happily ever after." Margot grimaced and commented, "There's not a man in the world who'd honestly say that."

"Have a little faith," Alfred responded with a soft chuckle.

"Any man that gives the 'right answer' without screwing it up first is a man with an ulterior motive," Margot retorted knowingly.

"You've had experience then," he replied.

"I dated one too many Marines," she told him. "They're all the same."

Alfred regarded her curiously. "Do you really believe that?"

She returned his gaze, looking him over briefly. Again, she was reminded of how much like a soldier he seemed. She'd never brought it up before, but now seemed as good a time as any. "Were you a soldier, Alfred?"

"What makes you ask that?" he inquired warily.

She shrugged. "You look like you've seen combat. There's this…way about you. They say soldiers can recognize other soldiers."

The man sighed. "Yeah, well it's not common knowledge around here, so I'd appreciate it if you kept a tight lip."

Margot resisted the urge to shout, "I knew it!" Instead, she was silent for a moment before asking, "What was it? Infantry? Air Force?"

"Royal Marines, then Special Air Services," he replied quietly.

"Really?" It wasn't that Margot didn't believe him. In fact, the surprised outburst was more of a cover for the embarrassment she felt as she suddenly realized her earlier misstep, when she'd expressed her negative opinion of Marines, royal or otherwise. If she'd known…

Alfred's voice distracted her. "You seem surprised."

"And you seemed so harmless," she retorted with a smile, quickly recovering from her previous _faux pas_ when she realized that he hadn't taken any offense.

The man scoffed softly. "I'm frequently underestimated. Don't make that mistake. Now," he said, changing his tone and leaning forward to look at the book again. "Shall we have a look at the Wife of Bath's Tale, or are you going to keep faffing about?"

"Sorry, sir," Margot replied with a grin and a tiny, joking salute.

Unamused, Alfred grumbled, "Don't do that," and directed her attention back to the book.

Margot couldn't help but notice that the man seemed a little distracted himself, constantly checking his pocket watch, or glancing at the clock in the corner of the room. They took a break for lunch, and Margot spent a few hours out in the gardens before returning for a second go at her homework. As it got later, Alfred started to pace, absently worrying the cover of his watch with the pad of his thumb.

"Is everything all right?" Margot inquired.

"It's getting late," Alfred replied without looking at her. "Master Bruce should've returned by now." He went to the window, rocking on his feet for a few moments, hands clasped behind his back. "He could be hurt," he added. "I ought to go after him."

"I could come with you, if you'd like," she offered.

"No," he said, turning to face her with a shake of his head. "Go home," he ordered gently. "You look positively knackered."

Margot rose, but she hesitated to leave. "Are you sure, Alfred?"

He nodded. "Yes," he reassured her, watching as she packed up her books. "I apologize for leaving off so abruptly."

"It's fine," she replied. "I've had about as much studying as I can take, anyway." Heading for the door, she turned back and added, "I'll see you tomorrow."

Alfred nodded distractedly, and Margot left in silence.

* * *

Bruce was limping when Margot came across him the next evening in the gardens.

"Hiya, gimpy," she greeted him with a smile. "What happened to you?"

A smile of his own reflected on his face. "I fell down a hill."

Margot winced. "Bet that hurt."

"Not as much as climbing back up," the boy pointed out.

"Nice limp, though," she noted. "You kind of walk like me now."

"I do, don't I?" he agreed. His gaze fell to her leg, and he asked, "How did you hurt your leg, anyway?"

Margot hesitated, remembering the last conversation they had about her military past. She didn't see the harm in telling him the sanitized version. "There was a bomb in the road," she said. "It could have blown me apart, but it didn't. For a while the doctors thought I'd lose my leg, but they saved it."

"Does it hurt still?" asked Bruce.

"Nah," she brushed the question off nonchalantly. "That was a long time ago. It's just stiff now." She indicated his leg and changed the subject. "You shouldn't be walking on that. Have you put any ice on it recently?"

"No."

"Come on," she told him, draping an arm over his shoulders and leading him back towards the manor. "I'll get you some ice." Glancing down at him with a bit of mischief in her eyes, she added, "We can even race if you want."

"Race?" Bruce inquired with a confused frown.

"Two gimps limping through the house. I don't see a problem. If your leg hurts, you can always hop," she teased, hopping ridiculously on her leg.

Bruce didn't respond, he just took off, limping towards the house.

"Hey!" she called after him, racing to catch up.

They shot through the corridors, their voices and uneven footsteps echoing in the quietness. Bruce beat Margot to the kitchen door, but only because she'd accidentally brushed against an expensive china vase in the hallway and stopped to catch it before it shattered on the floor.

Alfred was already in the kitchen, preparing dinner at the stove. It looked like soup. He glanced up when they stumbled through the doorway. "Ah, the mystery of the raucous din in the hallway has been cleared up, I see," he noted dryly. "For a moment I was worried we had a herd of wild boars running loose."

"We came for ice," said Bruce breathlessly as he limped into the room.

"For your ankle, no doubt, now that it's swollen like a balloon." Alfred tasted the soup, nodded in satisfaction, and set the spoon down before he turned on Bruce. "I tell you to stay off the bloody thing and what do you do? Go tearing through the house like some wild ruffian. And you—" he pointed at Margot "—you shouldn't be encouraging him."

"It got a little out of hand," she admitted apologetically, rubbing her own leg ruefully.

Alfred glared at the both of them for another moment longer, before softening. "Come on then, the pair of you." He sat Bruce down and fetched him an ice pack from the freezer. He then filled a hot water bottle with water from the kettle and handed it to Margot.

She took it, a little surprised, but pleased by the kind gesture. "Thanks."

He nodded and filled the kettle with fresh water, putting it on for tea, which he prepared and served after a few minutes.

Bruce and Margot sat quietly at the kitchen table, sipping at their tea in amicable silence while Alfred continued with dinner. After a bit, he murmured, "Dinner is nearly ready, Master Bruce. Why don't you invite your partner in crime to stay?" He indicated Margot with a nod. "We can take it here in the kitchen."

Bruce turned to Margot. "Would you like to stay?"

"No, I really should be going," she replied, starting to stand. Her leg immediately collapsed underneath her, sending a shock of pain shooting upward. She grabbed the table and hastily sat back down, sucking her breath in through her teeth. "Well, maybe I'll give it another hour or so," she groaned.

"That's what I thought," said Alfred with a raised brow.

"Alfred's a good cook," Bruce reassured her.

"So I see," she noted, watching as Alfred pulled a pan from the oven, closing her eyes and breathing in the smell of freshly baked rolls. "God, it's been so long since I've had fresh bread."

The rolls tasted even better than they smelled, and the soup was exquisite. Bruce even encouraged Alfred to stay and eat with them, so they all sat around the table, the conversation stifled briefly by the meal they shared.

Once the hunger started to fade, however, Bruce turned to Margot, who by then was picking at her third roll. "Tell me something about the Marines. What's it like?"

Margot noticed the way Alfred glanced up quickly, and she hesitated, searching for an appropriate answer. She finally shrugged and replied simply, "Miserable."

"How so?"

Her eyes flickered to Alfred, waiting for some kind of cue, but the man didn't give her one, so she continued on as normal. "Well, first there's boot camp, which is five percent training and ninety-five percent mind games."

"Mind games?" questioned Bruce.

She nodded. "There was this one time the drill instructors were supposed to be training us how to put on our gas masks properly. They showed us how to do it once, and then they took us to these stupid little Quonset huts and got us all lined up inside. We had our masks on, and then they gassed us, so it was obvious real quick what idiots hadn't put their masks on right."

"They gassed you?" Bruce inquired incredulously, which only seemed to encourage Margot.

"Oh, I haven't even gotten to the good part," she retorted. "After about a minute of that, they made us all take off our masks and do jumping jacks in the gas, so it's not like we could hold our breath, and let me tell you, the stuff wreaks havoc on you. So we've got all this shit just leaking from our eyes and noses, and we're trying to get our masks back on properly. And of course they don't ever clean the masks, so I have this mask with somebody else's crusty phlegm still in it—and it wasn't a little bit either, because it just pours right out of you—"

"This is dinner, you realize," Alfred suddenly interjected, pulling Margot out of her story with abruptness. "Some of us are trying to eat."

"Quiet, Alfred," Bruce muttered absently, waving the man off. "Are they allowed to do that to you?" he asked Margot with fascination.

She laughed. "There are a lot of things they're not supposed to do to us that they do anyway. You know what they say: what doesn't kill you makes you a Marine."

"Marines," Alfred scoffed. "You think you're so bloody tough."

Margot raised an eyebrow, knowing full well that the man himself had been a Royal Marine.

Alfred pointedly ignored the look. "That's nothing," he said with a challenging look on his face. "Try drinking your own piss for a week when some bloody screw-up leaves the water tank uncovered during a sandstorm."

"Wait, when were you in a sandstorm?" Bruce inquired with a furrowed brow.

"Never you mind that now," muttered Alfred.

"You ever eat seagull?" Margot replied.

"Snake."

"We slept in mud pits for three days straight."

Alfred let out a short laugh. "Treacle, you don't even know the meaning of mud pits."

Bruce glanced between the two of them as they stared at each other, caught in some strange power struggle. "Curious," murmured the boy.

"What?" Alfred inquired, breaking his gaze away from Margot to glance at Bruce.

He shook his head. "It's nothing. I didn't realize you were so competitive, Alfred."

The man scoffed. "I'm not."

"Right," Margot snorted. "Don't tell me you weren't trying to show me up."

"Trying?" Alfred raised an eyebrow.

She regarded him silently for a moment before pushing her bowl away and dropping her elbow onto the table. "You think you're tough? Wrestle for it."

He gazed skeptically at her. "You sure you know what you're getting yourself into?"

"I think I can handle a butler," she goaded him.

He shook his head with a soft chuckle and got to his feet, removing the dishes from the table and placing them in the sink. "Let's do this properly," he told her, rolling up his sleeve and sitting across the table from Margot, offering his arm to her.

Bruce's eyes had lit up with excitement and interest, standing behind his butler as he offered, "I'll referee."

Margot took the man's hand. It was warm and dry and just the slightest bit rough, as if to prove that years of household labor could never erase the grittier work he'd been involved in long ago. She noticed a particular, subdued energy in his firm grip, which also showed in his hard blue eyes, which glinted like chips of ice as he regarded her calmly.

The two of them stared intently at each other as they waited for the word from Bruce. Margot made a face at Alfred, who didn't even budge.

"Ready?" asked Bruce.

Margot nodded.

"Ready, Master Bruce."

He raised his hand and counted them off. "One. Two. Three. Go!"

As soon as Bruce's hand came down, Margot felt her arm snap towards the table, and she was barely able to save herself from a quick, ignominious defeat by exerting all of her strength, keeping her arm just a few inches from the table's surface.

"Shit!" she exclaimed softly through her teeth, surprised by Alfred's strength. She knew he'd been a soldier, but even then she hadn't been prepared for the sudden show of brute strength. He didn't even seem troubled, as if he wasn't expending any energy whatsoever, even though Margot could feel effort he was putting into it.

She fought back with all she had, and she still had to start pushing on the table with her free arm just to stay up.

"Oi! She's cheating!" Alfred grunted.

"Margot!" Bruce exclaimed.

She gave up and her arm slammed against the table. She slumped back in her chair and massaged her shoulder sorely. "Damn, Alfred. That's impressive." She smiled and added, "For a butler."

"Care to try again?" he responded with a raised brow.

"Ha!" A laugh burst from her. "No, thank you. I think I'll stick to people my own size." Her gaze flickered up to Bruce. "How about you?"

"Me?" he inquired in surprise. "But I've never arm-wrestled before."

"Go on, Master B," Alfred encouraged him, rising from his chair and letting Bruce take his place. "Just put your elbow on the table, other arm flat like that, keep yourself well rooted. Good."

Satisfied that Bruce had the basic form down, Alfred took a step back.

Margot smiled at the boy. "Don't worry, kid. I'll go easy on you."

"No," Bruce insisted with surprising determination. "Try to win."

Margot shrugged as she took his hand.

"On three," said Alfred, adding warningly, "And no cheating from either of you."

"Yeah, Bruce."

"He meant you, Margot!" retorted Bruce with a laugh.

"Ready?" Alfred interjected. "One. Two. Three!"

Margot wasn't sure what she'd expected, but she hadn't thought it would be as difficult as it was. Scrawny as he looked, Bruce had a certain wiry kind of strength in him. "Looks like you've got some muscles in those skinny arms after all," she commented.

"I've been training," he explained in a grunt, screwing his face up with all the effort he was expending.

Margot felt him waver for a moment, and she took advantage, exerting all her force at once and slamming his hand onto the table.

"Right! And the lady wins," Alfred announced. He paused for a moment, his brow furrowed, and added in a mutter, "Not so sure about the 'lady' part."

Margot ignored the jibe. Letting go of Bruce's hand, she sat back and told the boy, "I'm impressed, kid. One day, you're going to beat the snot out of me."

Bruce grinned, despite losing. "I would expect nothing less of myself."

"Right," Alfred said, resting a hand on Bruce's shoulder. "That's enough of that. Dessert, anyone?"

"I should go," Margot answered with a reluctant shake of her head. She tentatively rose to her feet, testing her leg. It hurt, but it held.

"I'll show you out, in that case," replied Alfred.

"Goodnight, Margot," Bruce called after them.

"'Night, Bruce."

In the foyer, Alfred pulled her aside and looked at her for a moment with the strangest expression on his face. For a second, Margot worried that she'd overstepped some boundary again. But then he smiled wearily and murmured, "It's good to see him enjoy himself like that. These days, it seems nigh impossible to get him to come out of that study."

Margot smiled in return. "You're doing a good job, Alfred," she reassured the man. "It's not my place to say it, but you're good for him."

"And he's good for me," he admitted. "Will we see you tomorrow, then?"

She nodded, cracking her knuckles. "That wisteria and I have some unfinished business."

"That old plant?" he exclaimed in soft surprise. "Is it still causing you trouble? Why not just take the bloody thing out?"

She shrugged. "I'm fond of it."

Alfred inclined his head in deference. "Of course." He still seemed slightly bemused, but Margot didn't feel the need to explain further.

Instead, she nodded gratefully and limped out into the night, feeling a strange and warm sense of satisfaction creep through her.

* * *

Margot's leg was still sore the next day from racing Bruce. She didn't regret it, but it certainly made pruning the wisteria more challenging. She wobbled on the ladder, reaching to cut a particularly obnoxious sprig that seemed determined to upset the delicate balance she had achieved with the plant's shape.

Margot was smart enough to know that she should have climbed down from the ladder, moved it a foot or so to the right, and then trimmed the unruly branch. The idea of climbing down and then climbing back up, however, deterred her. Instead she leaned as far as she could reach.

It was no surprise, then, that she lost her balance mid-cut, slipping from the ladder and crashing to the ground. As if to add insult to injury, the ladder slowly tipped and landed on top of her. She groaned softly and laid still for a few moments, wallowing in her pain.

A nearby window swung open and Bruce's face appeared through the curtains. "Margot!" he exclaimed with surprise. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," she replied with a wince.

Bruce vanished inside, but she heard him call out, "Alfred!"

Soon they were both out there, Bruce lifting the ladder so that Alfred could help Margot to her feet.

"You all right there?" Alfred inquired, watching as Margot tentatively put weight on her leg.

She winced and inhaled sharply. "I think so."

"Right. Master Bruce, back to your studies. I have this sorted."

The boy hesitated, but did as he was told. Alfred took Margot's arm and hung it around his shoulders, helping her limp inside to the kitchen, where he sat her down at the table and prepared a hot water bottle for her.

While he waited for the water to heat up, he crouched in front of her to get a better look at her leg. "May I?" he inquired.

She nodded, grimacing a little as he poked and prodded at her leg. The knee was particularly sore.

"Did you ever try physical therapy?" he asked absently.

"Yeah. You should have seen me before therapy. I could hardly walk."

Alfred pressed one hand down on her thigh, just above the knee, and wrapped his other hand around her ankle. For a moment, Margot wondered what the hell he was doing, trying not to notice their close quarters, or the pleasant warmth of his hand on her thigh. Then she wondered what the hell she was doing, having thoughts like that about the man who was, for all intents and purposes, her boss. Then all such thoughts were banished when the man suddenly and swiftly bent her leg.

Margot's vision went white for a moment, and she had to grip the chair hard to remain seated in it, a pained cry escaping her. "What the hell, Alfred!" she demanded angrily.

Alfred was as unflappable as ever. "Did you see that?" he inquired.

"Yes, I saw it!"

"It can bend that far," he pointed out, doing it again, speaking loudly to be heard over her protestations. "The only reason it doesn't is because you won't."

"Because it hurts," she gritted through her teeth. "What are your qualifications for this anyway?"

"I've done my fair share of field dressings."

She glared at him, but after a moment she said, "Do it again."

He looked up at her. "Do it yourself."

She tried to bend it herself, but the pain became unbearable before she'd even bent it halfway as far, and she couldn't bring herself to do it as quickly as he had. "I can't," she admitted. "My body is averse to causing itself physical harm."

"Not everything that hurts is harmful," Alfred told her, taking her leg and bending it again. He held it in place this time, while Margot tried not to squirm in pain.

"All right," she finally growled, and he let go.

"You should do that every day," he instructed, rising and preparing the hot water bottle for her, which she held on her knee, letting its warmth start to permeate the joint. "Now I've got to get back to Master Bruce, if you think you're all right on your own."

"Yeah," she waved him off, "I'll be fine."

He nodded and turned to go. "Margot?" he called back.

"What?"

"Try not to fall off any more ladders."


	16. Chapter Fifteen

_"All the writers keep writing what they write,  
Somewhere another pretty vein just dies.  
I've got the scars from tomorrow and I wish you could see,  
That you're the antidote to everything except for me.  
A constellation of tears on your lashes.  
Burn everything you love,  
Then burn the ashes.  
In the end everything collides—  
My childhood spat back the monster that you see."_

 _"My Songs Know What You Did in the Dark" –Fallout Boy_

* * *

Chapter Fifteen:

Margot was already having a bad day when she arrived early to work one Thursday morning. Final exams were coming up, and she had several final projects and a senior presentation to do. She was using several aspects of the Wayne Manor grounds in one of her landscaping projects, and she'd brought along her markers and her draft paper to draw up a few sketches, which was why she found herself arriving at work at five-thirty instead of seven.

It didn't help that her backpack had broken just as she'd come off of the bridge into Bristol County, and she'd had to go back for her case of markers that had fallen out, only to realize that half of them had scattered out onto the pavement. She'd spent a good fifteen minutes dashing out between cars and trying to collect them again. Fortunately, there wasn't much traffic on that road at five in the morning.

Naturally, then, when she caught sight of the figure prowling around the grounds, she confronted him.

The man was about Alfred's build and height, and Margot almost mistook him for the butler, except he walked differently, aimlessly almost, and he had a furtive air about him that she didn't like.

"Who are you?" she demanded as she came nearer, holding her backpack closed, trying to keep everything inside. "What are you doing here?"

He turned to regard her curiously, a smile warming his friendly features as he watched her approach. "Easy there, luv. I'm a friend of Alfie's," he explained in a gruff brogue. Looking her over, he jerked his chin at her and asked with amusement, "And who might you be? The guard dog?"

"The gardener," she retorted, letting her fury calm a bit, but still remaining on guard. "And how do you know Alfred?"

"We served together back in the day," he explained. "Special Air Service."

"Soldier then, are you?"

"Something like that," he replied with a chuckle. Looking her over, he added, "You look like you've seen a bit of combat yourself."

"Some," she admitted.

"Is that how you got that little hobble of yours then?" he asked, pointing at her knee.

For some reason, she didn't like him asking about her injury. Usually she didn't care, but this time, it seemed like it was less about curiosity, like he was sizing her up or something. "Limp or not, I could still crush your larynx like a soda can."

The man laughed, unperturbed by her threat. "You've got gumption. I like that."

Margot stared at him long and hard. She didn't have patience for a man who could laugh before six in the morning. Not today. "I've got a lot more than gumption, Mr…"

"Reggie," he said. "Call me 'Reggie'." The man regarded her with amusement, hardly deterred by her wariness. He eyed her backpack curiously. "Having a bad day, are we?" he inquired, raising his eyebrows sympathetically.

Margot tried to remain aloof, but the reminder of everything that had gone wrong that morning suddenly welled up again and she couldn't keep herself from sighing heavily. "Yes. God, yes." She glanced up at the sky and added with a groan, "And it's not even daylight yet."

Reggie chuckled. "Hand it over," he said, holding his hand out for her backpack. "I think I can help you with that broken pack of yours."

She reluctantly handed the backpack over to him.

"Where's the toolshed?"

She showed him the way and watched as he sat down and examined her backpack for a few moments. He picked up a set of pliers and went to work, closing the slider until it caught the teeth again. He gave it a few experimental tugs before handing it back to Margot.

"There. Easy as spit."

"Thanks," Margot replied.

"Not a problem." He sighed and stood. "Sorry if I startled you."

"Sorry for threatening you."

Reggie laughed and shook his head. "I've heard worse." He gave her another once over, still shaking his head in amusement as he left. "I'll see you around, girlie."

* * *

Margot was on her way to the kitchen to wash up a bit when she heard voices through a door that had been cracked open. She wouldn't have stopped to eavesdrop, but she thought she heard her name. Curious, she paused and listened from nearby, recognizing Reggie's voice, and Alfred's.

"'Margot', is it?" asked Reggie. "Tough little bird, isn't she? She practically attacked me this morning."

Alfred chuckled softly. "You don't know the half of it, mate. Some advice? Stay away from her."

"Why? You aren't…?" the man trailed off suggestively.

"What?" came the sharp inquiry in response.

Reggie hesitated, then murmured in a quieter voice, "You know. Having it off with her. You aren't…are you?"

"No!" protested Alfred with a scoff.

"Why the hell not?" the man asked incredulously. "Hell, Alfie, she'd turn you into a bloody pretzel."

"What makes you think I'd ever want to be a pretzel, Reg?"

"Who _doesn't_ want to be a bloody pretzel?" laughed Reggie.

"I'm telling you, Reggie, you stay away from her," Alfred warned the other man, his voice becoming more serious.

"Sir, yes sir," he barked back sarcastically.

Margot smiled a little as she made her way down the corridor. It wasn't that she needed Alfred to defend her honor—she could do that well enough on her own. But the fact that he would… Well, she almost liked it.

* * *

Margot was home, sketching landscape plans by the light of her small lamp, watching the lightning flash through the window. Another storm rolling over the city, the third in as many days. The grounds at Wayne Manor had good drainage, but she worried that at this rate, she might have to drain the pond before it flooded into the surrounding landscaping.

Her phone rang, startling her out of her thoughts, causing her to streak her marker across the page.

"Damn it," she cursed softly, fumbling for her phone. "Hello?"

"Margot!" gasped a voice on the other end of the line. "Margot, h-he's hurt!"

"Bruce!" she exclaimed in alarm, feeling her body go cold. She forced herself to be calm, to speak steadily and clearly. "Slow down. What's wrong?"

"It's Alfred! He's been stabbed. I-I called for an ambulance—"

She didn't need to hear any more. "I'll meet you at the hospital."


	17. Chapter Sixteen

_A/N: Sorry for the long delay. Classes have been...well, you know how they are._

* * *

 _"I'll make a soldier's decision to fly away,  
Load my gun, paint my face, call me misery.  
I can see the sky light up and the ground explode.  
_ _Got my sights locked in, I can see you breathe,  
_ _Then I watched you fall and somebody scream.  
_ _It's the saddest thing when angels fly away."_

 _"When Angels Fly Away" –Cold_

* * *

Chapter Sixteen:

Margot found Bruce in the waiting room, sitting with his elbows on his knees, staring fixedly at the floor, still in his robe and pajamas. He'd barely managed to throw on a pair of slippers—they were mismatched. Blood stained his sleeves. He hardly glanced up as she sat beside him, but he leaned into her when she draped an arm over his shoulders.

"Any news yet?" she asked softly.

He shook his head, sniffling. He was trembling. She sat forward, shrugging off her jacket and draping it over him. He clutched it in his fingers.

"What happened?"

The boy didn't answer. He didn't have to, she supposed. It didn't matter what had happened. What mattered was the man in surgery, the one who could live or die, depending on how the universe was feeling that cold, dark night.

She held Bruce, staring silently into space, her attention caught by every passing nurse and physician. Even the janitor made her jump. Finally, after an hour that felt more like a year, a doctor approached.

"Mr. Pennyworth has been stabilized," he told them.

Margot opened her mouth to ask the difficult question, but Bruce beat her to it.

"Will he make it?"

The doctor shook his head. "It's too soon to say, but we are optimistic. You can go in, if you like."

Bruce nodded and stood, following the doctor to the hospital room, Margot trailing behind. The boy took a step back as soon as he reached the doorway, his face going pale as he caught sight of Alfred lying unconscious on the bed, hooked up to a ventilator, an IV, and various monitors.

Margot touched his shoulder lightly, reassuring him, "It'll be all right, Bruce."

The boy stiffened and whirled around abruptly, his face distorted in agony. "You don't know that!" he shouted.

She looked down, but only for a moment. Looking the boy in the eye, she agreed, "You're right. I don't."

He lowered his gaze and whispered, "I can't lose him."

"Alfred's a fighter, Bruce. He's not going to leave you. Not without a fight."

Bruce stood rooted in place, avoiding her gaze, his lower lip trembling. Then he turned away and sat down in a chair, staring at the floor. "I'd like to be alone, please."

"All right," Margot sighed. She could imagine how he felt, and it wasn't her place to comfort him, try as much as she might. It was Alfred's place. And even though the man wasn't able to do so at the moment, there was no way Margot could fill the void. Sometimes the void needed to be left alone. She understood.

So she left.

* * *

A dark figure waited outside her door as she returned home, and Margot found herself reaching for her pistol in self-defense, before remembering that she hadn't carried a pistol in years.

The figure turned to face her, and a streak of blue flashed under the light. Freddie.

"There you are!" the man exclaimed. "I've been standing here for hours."

"Don't lie," Margot growled as she approached, jerking her head to the side. "Move."

The man didn't budge. "Hey," he retorted irritably, "don't bitch at me. I need a favor."

"No."

"What do you mean, 'no'? Don't you know what's happening? Fish has disappeared, and I—"

"Good!" Margot responded angrily, wanting nothing but to crawl back into bed with a bottle of whiskey.

"No, it's not good!" Freddie insisted. "There are people—"

She grabbed him by the collar. "Look," she snarled, "I don't have the patience for this right now." Letting him go, she pushed him aside and added, "I suggest you leave."

"Is this how you're going to treat me for doing you a favor?" Freddie inquired from behind her.

Margot's hand slipped from the doorknob. "A favor?" She whirled around. "A _favor_?" She reached for Freddie, snatching him before he could run. She dragged him protesting down the corridor, not caring about the racket they were causing. She stood at the top of the stairwell and heaved him down the stairs, shouting after him, "Keep the fuck away from me!"

She didn't wait for him to land before she turned away and limped to her apartment, all too aware of the worried eyes that peeked from cracked doorways, wondering what the ruckus was about.

"Margot?" her mother greeted her tiredly as she entered. "I heard shouting."

"Probably just another domestic dispute," she responded wearily, locking the door behind her. "You hungry?"

"Always."

Margot disappeared into the kitchen and focused on preparing her mother's breakfast. She glanced at her watch and realized that it was already five in the morning. She had classes in just a few hours.

A shower didn't help to wash the smell of hospital from her body. She could still smell it lingering under the scent of her soap. Packing some oatmeal into a plastic container, she grabbed her backpack and her helmet and left with a quick goodbye to her mother.

She went by Wayne Manor first, stopping in briefly to grab a change of clothes for Bruce, remembering his thin pajamas and mismatched slippers. He still had her jacket. Hopefully that had been enough to keep him warm.

At the hospital, Margot found Bruce dozing in the same chair she'd left him in. As she entered the room, he started and looked up exhaustedly. His eyes were red and swollen, and there was a print on his face from where he'd rested it against the back of the chair.

"Brought you some clothes and something to eat," she told him, handing him both.

He rubbed his face and reached for the clothes and the container of oatmeal. "Thank you," he said quietly, setting them aside.

Margot glanced at Alfred, who was still unconscious. "How is he?"

"The same," said Bruce.

She nodded. Hesitating, she asked, "Do you want me to stay?"

He shook his head. "No."

"All right. I'll stop by after class."

They boy, it seemed, didn't even hear her.

* * *

Bruce smiled at Margot when she entered the hospital room that afternoon, and she immediately saw why.

Alfred had awakened.

"Good morning, sleeping beauty," she greeted the man. "How do you feel?"

He groaned. "Bit like a pincushion, thanks for asking."

She let out a soft laugh, mostly of relief. "Yeah, well next time try not to get stabbed."

"Oh right," he retorted sarcastically, "that's some really sound advice right there." He winced a little and lay back.

"Do you know who did it?" she asked.

Bruce glanced worriedly at Alfred, who shook his head. "No. Didn't get a good look."

"Well, I'm sure the police will find him." She tried to sound reassuring.

Alfred grunted noncommittally. "Sit," he invited her.

She shook her head. "I'm just passing by. I thought I'd stop in and see how you both were. Is there anything you need?" Glancing at Bruce, she added, "I could stop by the manor."

Bruce looked up at her. "Could you bring a few books? And maybe a change of clothes for tomorrow."

She nodded. "Got it." She looked at Alfred. "And you?"

"Right, like I want you rummaging through my things," he retorted.

"Sounds like you have something to hide," she teased.

"Oh, bugger off. If you stay any longer, I'll need more morphine."

Margot smiled and turned to leave. "You want me to grab you something to eat?" she asked over her shoulder.

Bruce shook his head. "Thank you. I'm not hungry."

"I'm famished," said Alfred pointedly.

"Not you," she told the man sternly. "It's Jell-O and ice chips for you."

And with that she left, feeling the butler's irritated glare on her back.


	18. Chapter Seventeen

_"The life I think about  
Is so much better than this.  
I never thought I'd be stuck in this mess.  
I'm sick of wondering  
Is it life or death.  
I need to figure out who's behind me."_

 _"One X" –Three Days Grace_

* * *

Chapter Seventeen:

Alfred and Bruce returned to Wayne Manor with Margot there to greet them. She'd even filled a vase with cuttings of flowers from the gardens and left it in the study for them to find.

She didn't see either of them much, but she did catch Bruce in the kitchen once, preparing a sandwich. He was in the middle of cutting the bread. He'd already cut three slices, but they all looked like wedges—paper thin on one side and about two inches thick on the other side.

Margot approached and picked up one of the bread wedges. "I've seen square sandwiches, and round sandwiches, but never wedge sandwiches," she said with a laugh.

Bruce smiled weakly and kept cutting.

"What is this, a sandwich or a doorstop?"

She could see his shoulders shaking as he tried not to laugh.

Taking the other two pieces of bread, she set them upright and balanced the third on top of them. "Stonehenge!"

Bruce dissolved into laughter. "All right, yes," he admitted, "I can't cut bread."

"You're using the wrong kind of knife, kid," she pointed out, grabbing a bread knife from the block and offering it to him handle-first. "Try this one."

She watched as he carefully began to saw at the loaf of bread with it. This time, the slice was straight, but so thin that it folded in on itself and broke. The boy's shoulders slumped with disappointment.

"Why don't you just get sliced bread?"

He frowned. "Alfred usually makes it himself. And he usually cuts it," he added with a hint of worry in his voice.

"Well, consider this practice," Margot told him. "If you can't slice bread, you'll never survive in this crazy world."

Bruce let out a soft snort. "That's highly improbable."

Leaning on the table, Margot watched as he tried to cut another piece. "It doesn't have to be perfect, you know."

"It does," said Bruce distractedly, focusing all his attention on cutting the perfect slice of bread.

A hint of suspicion tugged at her, and she noted, "This is for Alfred, isn't it."

"Yes."

"Right. Well, why don't I cut the bread for you, and you can tell him you did it."

"That would be cheating," he pointed out.

"True, but you're running out of bread there," she replied.

Bruce looked at the remaining half of the loaf and paused, as if he were calculating the chances of him being able to cut two perfect slices before he reached the heel of the bread. He finally sighed and handed Margot the knife.

"Even pressure's the key," she explained as she showed him how to do it, cutting off a decent slice of bread. She cut another, then handed him the knife. "Now you try."

He reluctantly took the knife and continued to cut. By the end of the bread, he seemed to be getting the hang of it.

"Good," Margot said with a smile. "Now what are we going to do with all this sliced bread?"

The boy gave her a wry shrug. "Do you feel like a sandwich?"

* * *

It was interesting, Margot thought, to watch Bruce from a distance as he cared for his butler. She found it a humorous and endearing turn of events. They really were like family, the two of them. A strange and inseparable pair.

Well, almost inseparable.

Margot was trimming the topiaries by the front door when she heard a vehicle approaching. Looking over her shoulder, she saw that it was a taxi. Frowning curiously, she took a couple of steps towards the car when the front door opened and out stepped Bruce.

"Margot," he greeted her with mild surprise.

"What's with the taxi?" she asked, noticing that he was dressed to go out, bundled up in his coat and scarf.

"I have to meet a friend. Can you look after Alfred?"

Margot eyed him suspiciously. "A friend?"

"Yes, I have friends, Margot," he informed her. "Alfred's in the study. He wasn't supposed to be out of bed yet, and he popped a few stitches. He should be sleeping now."

Margot hesitated, but didn't see what she could do. It wasn't as if she was in any position to stop the boy. "Yeah," she agreed reluctantly. "All right."

Bruce thanked her and made his way towards the taxi. "Margot?" he called back.

"What?"

"If he wakes up, don't tell him I've left."

She definitely had a bad feeling as she watched the boy leave, but she dutifully turned around and made her way to the study. Alfred was there on the sofa, sleeping with a blanket drawn up to his chest, just as Bruce had said. She sat in a nearby chair, wondering how long she'd be there, watching the sleeping man. And what would she say if he woke up?

A soft tap at the window startled her out of her thoughts. At first, Margot thought it would be Cat. She did have the habit of using windows like doors. Except she didn't usually knock first.

Margot reached for her shears, which she'd brought inside with her, and cautiously went to the window. She pulled the curtains away and felt a shock of dread shoot through her when she caught sight of Freddie standing in the planter outside.

"What the hell are you doing here?" She climbed through the window and closed it sharply behind her.

"I followed you," replied Freddie with a shrug. "What business do you have at Wayne Manor anyway?"

"None of yours," she retorted, pointing the shears threateningly at him.

He glanced down at the shears and noted, "You work here, don't you?"

"What do you want?" she demanded.

Freddie looked up at her with a hard kind of desperation in his eyes. "I have a new boss now. He heard about your deal with Fish and he wants to meet you."

"No."

The man reached for her, grabbing her by the front of her jacket. "Look, Margie, he's not asking!"

Margot raised the blade of her shears to his neck, pressing the point against his jugular, staring him down until he slowly, tentatively let her go. "Now you leave, Freddie," she growled, "and you tell this new boss of yours that my deal is with Fish, not with him." The man made no indication that he was leaving, so she added, "If I see you again, I'll kill you, Freddie. Friend or not. You stay away from me, and you stay away from Wayne Manor."

He hesitated, glaring at her, his fists clenched and his body shaking. But then he turned away and went running across the grounds, disappearing beyond the gate.

Margot watched, wanting to be sure that he'd gone before she stepped back inside through the window.

Alfred was stirring when she returned. "Margot?" he inquired hoarsely, lifting his head to look at her. "Why are you climbing through the windows? That's what the bloody door is for."

"Right," she retorted, trying to keep her voice steady. "I'll just walk a half mile to the door and a half mile back here to the study. How are you?"

"I'm fine," he grumbled, trying to sit up with a wince. "Where's Bruce?"

"Studying outside," she lied, sitting down on the armrest by his feet. "He's fine. He sent me in to check on you."

Alfred peered at her with narrowed eyes, and for a moment she worried that he wouldn't believe her.

"Do you need anything?" she asked, hoping to distract him.

He pulled himself further up into a sitting position and winced painfully. "A good stiff drink," he gritted through his teeth.

"I'm not sure you're supposed to—" she stopped herself, seeing the look he shot her. "How does scotch sound?"

"Perfect," he growled.

She nodded and got to her feet. She went down to the cellar, ignoring the wine, and brought up a bottle of single malt scotch that looked like it would be good. Not that Alfred would be picky, she thought. Not in his condition.

She poured three fingers of scotch into a glass, sipping some of it out as she returned to the study, where she found Alfred still trying to sit up. Margot simply approached and handed him the whisky with one hand while she pushed him back down with the other hand.

When he started to protest, she interrupted, "You don't want to leak all over the sofa, do you?"

He grimaced wryly and settled back down again, taking a long sip of scotch. "God, I needed this."

"Now don't try to move anymore," she said with concern as she sat on the end of the sofa. "Bruce needs you in good health, and you're never going to heal if you keep ripping yourself open."

Alfred looked up at her with the kind of expression that usually preceded one of his sarcastic remarks. "And I suppose you're going to keep hovering."

"If that's what it takes," she responded.

He simply regarded her over the edge of his glass, stretched out on the sofa, his hair ruffled, his shirt half unbuttoned, the fresh bandages around his torso peeking through. "You're like a prison warden, you are," he noted.

"I didn't realize you were so whiny," she retorted.

"Just keep the scotch coming."

"Are you on painkillers?"

"No."

"…"

"Yeah, all right, I took one this morning."

"That's what I thought." She stood and removed the glass from his hand. "You should rest."

"I've had enough bloody rest," he grumbled, but she noticed he made no other attempts to move. In fact, he seemed more tired than anything. Margot hung around, absently straightening up, and the next time she glanced at Alfred, he was sleeping again.

She let out a sigh of relief. She'd been worried that he'd insist on getting up, looking for Bruce, catching her in her lie. When that kid returned, she was going to let him know that he'd better not depend on her to cover for him again.

Of course, when he actually did return—well into the evening—he looked so upset that all of Margot's irritation melted away.

"Bruce," she said, rising tiredly from the chair in which she'd been dozing. "Where have you been?"

He shook his head and didn't answer, staring instead at Alfred, who still slept on the sofa. "How's Alfred?"

She sighed. "He'll be fine. He's a complete nuisance as a patient, though. I don't know how he hasn't managed to put himself back in the hospital yet."

Bruce smiled wanly. "He's not used to sitting still for long." His gaze dropped a bit, and a heavy sigh shook its way out of his narrow frame.

"Is everything all right?" Margot asked him.

He nodded. "Yes. Thank you." He sat down in a chair and looked up at her. "I'm sorry to have kept you here so late. You can go home now, if you'd like."

"Are you sure you're all right?" she pressed, but the boy didn't break.

"I'm fine. Goodnight, Margot."

She bid him a reluctant farewell and left, telling herself she didn't want to know what was going on. She had enough to worry about.

That was a lie, though.

* * *

Margot was distracted by classes for the next few days, and by the time she returned to work, she found that Alfred was up and about as usual. If his wound was still troubling him, he showed no sign of it. In fact, he came all the way out to the far east end of the gardens in search of her that afternoon.

"Margot!" he called to her, beckoning her towards him.

"What is it?" she asked as she approached.

"I was hoping you'd be able to stay a bit once you finished your work. I'd like a word."

She regarded him with a hint of worry. Having a word with somebody was almost never good. She felt a bit of panic. Had he found out that Bruce had left? That she'd lied to him? Or worse, did he know about Freddie's visit? Had he discovered that dark little secret?

"Of course," she answered, forcing herself to remain calm.

He nodded and left, and Margot returned to work, but she was distracted the rest of the day.

Finally, when evening came, she made her way to the kitchen—which had somehow become their usual meeting place—and found Alfred at the table with a glass of scotch in hand. He seemed unusually pensive, which for Alfred was saying quite a bit.

He glanced up at her and offered her a seat. "Take a pew." Without asking, he rose and grabbed a second glass, pouring her a couple of fingers.

Margot accepted it quietly. "You wanted to talk?"

Alfred sighed, his gaze distant, his mind probably even farther away. Finally, he murmured, "There's a bloody war in the streets."

She frowned slightly. By now, it was all over the news, the gang war between Falcone and Maroni. But everybody in the city proper had been well aware of the building tensions for weeks. As strange as it must have seemed for people like Alfred and Bruce, who lived on the fringes of the city, to Margot, it was just another day in Gotham.

"There's always been a war," she replied calmly, taking a sip of scotch. "It's just that everybody's noticing it now." She peered at the man, catching a hint of deep sadness and regret in his eyes. "What's wrong, Alfred?"

He shook his head. "Times like these, I wonder…" He trailed off, as if he had just run out of air and the effort of breathing was too much for him. Turning his glass over in his hands, watching the dim light play through the last dregs of his whisky, he sighed heavily. "I've never raised a child before."

Margot didn't like the melancholy that seemed to hang over the man. He'd always struck her as being fairly serious, but he wasn't one to wallow in self-pity. Something was wrong, she thought.

As she had done so many times with Bruce, she tried to tease the man, joking, "Well that's obvious."

Instead of wringing a wry laugh from the man, though, it only earned her a reproachful stare.

"Sorry," she apologized quickly.

They were silent for a moment, before Alfred spoke again. "Master Bruce… He wants so badly to grow up. He keeps dabbling in things—dangerous things. I don't know that I can protect him from it anymore. Especially not with the city in a shambles. Everything's bedlam, Margot."

She frowned. "Dabbling?" she inquired. "What's Bruce dabbling in, Alfred?"

The man looked up at her, staring for a moment before he stated plainly, "Reggie's dead."

"Your friend that came by?" she inquired in shock.

Alfred nodded. "Bruce told me this afternoon that he was there when it happened. It was that lairy girl that did it."

"Cat?"

Again, the man nodded.

"Why?" she asked in stunned disbelief. She'd only been gone for a few days, and yet it felt as though so much had happened in that short span of time. Of course, in hindsight, she'd suspected Reggie of stabbing Alfred, but nobody had confirmed her suspicions. Maybe that's where Bruce had gone those few days ago, disappearing to meet a friend and not returning until late.

"Does it matter?" Alfred responded.

"Well what are you going to do about it?"

"There's nothing to do, is there," he said with a defeated sigh. "Master Bruce is going to do what he does, and I suppose I'll go on doing what I know to do—protecting him the best I can."

Margot still felt slightly confused, but there was one thing she was sure of. Reaching for Alfred's hand, she placed hers over it and reassured him, "You don't have to do it alone."

The man stared down at their hands quietly before he slowly shifted, pulling away. "Thank you, Margot, but I'm certain you have troubles of your own to worry about."

She wasn't sure what had changed, but she suddenly felt a bit of distance between herself and the butler. Had she said something wrong? Or was he just trying to keep her out of business that wasn't hers?

"How's your mother?" he asked, changing the subject tactfully.

It felt a little strange to be talking about her mother when there was a war on the streets of Gotham. Of course, here, far away across the bridge, everything seemed so much quieter, safer, even though she knew it wasn't true. And making conversation…maybe that was just Alfred's way of trying to maintain the illusion of safety.

She shook her head. "Belligerent."

"And your studies?"

A shrug. "Nearly over."

"Your literature class?"

At this, she smiled a bit. "I'm scraping by with a B, thanks to you."

He smiled wanly. "Once I got you to do your reading, the rest was easy. When is your graduation?"

"A week from Saturday."

"I expect you'll want the day off."

"No," she told him. "I'm not going."

"Too dangerous with the crime war? I didn't think it was affecting Burnley district."

"It's not," she replied. Burnley was the district that housed Gotham University, and most of the fighting had remained in Gotham's East End. At least for the time being. "I just don't want to sit through a boring ceremony. They'll mail me my diploma."

Alfred snorted softly. "And what, may I ask, will you do with your newfound freedom?"

She considered the question. "Well…I was considering working full-time, if that's all right with you."

"Of course." He sat back, musing on something before he said, "It's a pity, though, you missing your graduation and all."

"Trust me, it's not," she assured him.

"Still, perhaps we should celebrate," he suggested.

"Why?"

"It may be good for Master Bruce to take his mind off of things. Tell you what, you stay after work Sunday night. I'll make you dinner." He smiled tentatively, watching her expectantly.

Margot laughed softly and looked down at her hands. Dinner at Wayne Manor. She'd enjoyed it the last time. Her mother wouldn't be happy about it, but then again, there was a lot she wasn't happy about these days.

"All right," she gave in.

"Good," Alfred murmured, and he actually looked pleased about it.


	19. Chapter Eighteen

_A/N: this will take place between the first and second seasons. There will be scattered second season spoilers in chapters from here on out, just as a warning._

* * *

 _"Give me a reason to stay here,  
'Cause I don't want to live in fear.  
I can't stop the rain,  
But I can stop the tears.  
I can fight the fire,  
But I can't fight the fear."_

 _"No More" –Three Days Grace_

* * *

Chapter Eighteen:

Sunday approached, and despite the distractions of finals and turning in projects, Margot found that she was actually looking forward to dinner with Alfred and Bruce. It was like a beacon of something pleasant and normal in the midst of gang wars and graduation and whatever odd project Bruce had lost himself in. She'd walked past the study just the other day and noticed that all the books had been pulled from the shelves, piled around the room in lopsided stacks.

Sometimes, she didn't envy Alfred his job.

Actually, she never envied him his job. It was a job at which only Alfred could possibly succeed and even enjoy.

At least things had seemed to settle down a bit over the past week. Maroni, Margot had heard, was dead, and Falcone had just up and left. She'd heard nothing of Mooney, but she suspected that the woman was gone as well. She hadn't had any word, which gave her reason to hope. If Mooney was gone, Margot's contract was void.

She could hope, at least.

Finally, Sunday evening came, and Margot quickly hurtled down the stairs from her apartment, exiting out onto the street. It was the first time she'd bothered to wear lipstick and something other than a hoodie beneath her worn jacket. It was, after all, a somewhat special occasion, and she didn't think Alfred had seen her with makeup instead of dirt on her face in a long time, if ever.

Of course, why she cared, she wasn't quite sure at all. She felt a little giddy and stupid, and she almost convinced herself to turn around, wipe off her face, and trade her blouse for a t-shirt and hoodie.

Except just as she approached her bike, a man stepped out of the shadows, flanked by two heavyset thugs with what looked like nightsticks in hand, and suddenly lipstick was the last thing on her mind.

"Freddie?"

The man came forward. "You look nice," he said with a smile. "Going somewhere?"

She eyed the thugs warily. "Don't do this," she warned them. "I have people expecting me."

"You're going to be a little late."

As if on cue, the two goons attacked her. Margot grabbed the lid off of a nearby trashcan and managed to use it as a shield, blocking most of thugs' blows. Each one rang on the metal lid, resonating up her arm like a sharp shock. One of the men got through her defenses long enough to ram his club into her gut, knocking the breath from her. Retreating, Margot found herself backed up against a wall—not a good place to be. She tried to dodge past them, but one man wrenched the trashcan lid from her grasp while the other brought his club crashing down on the back of her head.

Light exploded in her vision, and Margot collapsed to the ground. As she faded away, she felt a hand brush her hair out of her face, heard Freddie's voice murmur, "I said you were going to meet the new boss."

Then everything went dark.

* * *

She woke in a dark room, slumped in an uncomfortable wooden chair, her face pressed against a table. A fire cracked in a nearby hearth.

Margot lifted her head with a groan, and heard an unfamiliar laugh erupt from nearby.

She blinked a couple of times, letting her eyes slowly focus on a man that sat at the head of the table. He was pale and thin, with dark hair that was greased into a faux-punk shape. He smiled widely at her, but there was a certain glitter in his hard, pale eyes that made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.

"Hello, Margaret," he greeted her in a reedy voice. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you. I've heard so much about you from our mutual acquaintance."

Margot glanced across the table and saw Freddie there. She looked around the room, seeing a couple of other faces that she didn't recognize, and one that she knew too well.

Cat.

What was she doing there?

"Who are you?" she inquired, looking back at the man at the head of the table.

"Oh yes," he chuckled. "I believe introductions are in order. They call me 'Penguin'. I'm certain you've heard of Falcone. Well, he's gone now, and here I am."

"And Mooney?"

He seemed quite amused by her question. "She went for a swim."

"What do you want?" Margot inquired bluntly. She had a headache, and his laughter had just the right quality to grate exceedingly on her nerves.

"Straight to business, I see. Well, then, let me put it simply. You owed Fish Mooney a debt. Now that I've replaced her, you owe that debt to me."

"My deal wasn't with you," Margot sneered.

"Ah, yes," he agreed with a nod of his head. "But," he added, holding up a finger and sliding a folder across the table towards her, "I have your contract."

"So?"

"So you can pay me, or you can continue to do jobs. Our mutual friend, Freddie, speaks very highly of your work."

Margot glared at Freddie, noticing with a small hint of satisfaction that he flinched a little. She tried not to notice the curious way Cat was staring at her.

"And if I refuse?"

A small frown flickered across Penguin's face, but it vanished quickly. "Well…I hate to make threats, but try to understand. If you refuse, others like you might refuse to pay their debts, and then what do we have?" He suddenly slammed his fists onto the table. "Total anarchy!" Inhaling deeply, he took a moment to compose himself before he continued, "And we can't have that. Which is why I'm willing to make a few sacrifices for the sake of order. Your mother, for example?"

She sank back into the uncomfortable chair, and regarded the man with surprising calm. He returned her gaze curiously.

"So?" he finally inquired, cocking his head to the side.

"My fee is two-thousand. Every job I do."

Penguin laughed. "That's a bit steep, don't you think?"

She stood, but it didn't quite have the effect that she wanted when she had to grab the edge of the table to keep from losing her balance. "That's the deal," she insisted.

The man also stood, coming around the table. She noticed he had a limp himself. He was just about the right height to look her straight in the eye.

"One-thousand."

"One-five."

He stood uncomfortably close to her, staring for a few moments before a smile broke over his face. He nodded and offered her a hand. "Very well."

She reluctantly shook his hand, taking a step back.

"It's been a pleasure, Margaret, but I fear I have other business to see to now. Would you like an escort back to your apartment? I'm certain Freddie would be more than happy."

"No," she answered curtly, shooting another glare at Freddie. "I'll find my own way."

And with that, she limped unsteadily from the room, her head pounding with every step she took. She glanced at Cat, who stared back at her, completely unperturbed. At the door, a man stopped her and handed her purse back to her, along with all of its contents.

She stepped out onto the street, trying to regain her bearings. Pulling out her phone, she noticed several missed calls, all from Wayne Manor.

Dinner.

Margot didn't want to call, she didn't want to explain, she didn't want to invent some excuse for not showing up because she wasn't going to go, not now, not with the guilt of her previous jobs fresh in her mind, the dread of future jobs, her own self-loathing and her hatred for people like Penguin and Freddie and Mooney, who just didn't let go. Most of all, though, she didn't want to hear the accusation in Alfred's voice—or worse, the concern.

Despite that, she dialed back and waited nervously as the phone rang.

One ring, and then halfway into the next ring a click, and Alfred's gruff, worried voice.

"Margot, where the bloody hell are you? We've been expecting you for over an hour."

She inhaled shakily and forced the words from her mouth. "Something came up, Alfred. I'm sorry."

And before he could ask her what was wrong, she hung up and started the long walk home.


	20. Chapter Nineteen

_"Don't tell me if I'm dying,  
'Cause I don't wanna know.  
If I can't see the sun, maybe I should go.  
Don't wake me 'cause I'm dreaming  
Of angels on the moon,  
Where everyone you know  
Never leaves too soon."_

 _"Angels on the Moon" –Thriving Ivory_

* * *

Chapter Nineteen:

Four jobs in one week.

Mooney, it seemed, had believed in using Margot sparingly. Penguin, not so much. Freddie showed up on her doorstep, first with one photo and location, then with two the next night, and another a couple of days later.

Hits, Margot heard him call them. That's what she was now. A hitman.

An assassin.

The words sounded so ugly, even when she didn't say them out loud.

These people were criminals, she told herself, some of them possible rivals of Penguin's, others people that were in debt to Falcone and refused to pay Penguin. People like her.

She was just tired. Tired of killing, tired of being used, tired of lying on her mattress at night, chasing sleep that never came, haunted by ghosts—most of them nameless faces that she'd seen solely through the crosshairs of her scope.

Back at work, Alfred didn't bring up the dinner she had never made it to, and she was grateful for that, at least. He left it up to her to talk about it when she felt ready, and Margot wasn't ever going to feel ready, so the subject remained buried, just another awkward thing to remember and not discuss whenever they saw each other.

Still, Alfred seemed concerned about her. Even Margot was concerned about herself—her lack of sleep, her distraction, her recent habit of drifting off during work. Just the other day, she'd collapsed behind the shrubbery and woken up an hour later with a branch poking her in the eye. Fortunately, neither Bruce nor Alfred had noticed, but her exhaustion and distracted behavior were beginning to tell.

Alfred mentioned it one afternoon, when he entered the kitchen and found her sitting at the table, finishing off her late lunch.

"Margot," he greeted her with a nod.

"Alfred."

She expected him to turn away and begin to busy himself with something—preparing dinner, polishing the silver, hell, fetching himself a drink even, but he did none of those things. He pulled out the chair across the table from her and sat in it, clasping his hands in front of him and regarding her solemnly.

"You've looked better," he noted.

She scoffed, "Yeah."

"What's wrong?" he inquired.

Margot shook her head. "I'm just tired."

"Exhausted, more like it." He sighed and asked, "What can I do to help?"

She frowned and narrowed her eyes suspiciously at him. "What do you mean?"

He shrugged. "Is it making the drive out here every day? It was fine when you were only here three or four days a week, but now that you're here full time, perhaps you ought to consider boarding here."

"No," said Margot emphatically. "I'm still looking after my mom. I can't leave her."

"Do you need an assistant? Is that it?"

"No, I can handle the work," she replied stubbornly.

Alfred frowned. "Then how am I to help you, Margot?"

"You can't," she told him honestly. "It has nothing to do with work."

The man sat back in his chair, his shoulder slumped in tired defeat, his mouth a flat line of displeasure. "If you don't want help, that's fine," he said after a moment. "But," he added, "don't go killing yourself for pride's sake."

She nodded, softening a bit. He really did seem genuinely concerned for her.

"I'll be all right," she reassured him.

She'd be fine, she told herself in her head. Just as soon as she got Penguin off her back.

* * *

The wind was cold, even by Gotham's standards, when Margot returned home one night. It bit through her jacket like thousands of icy knives. One of those freak wintery storms that wouldn't have been out of place in January, but was getting a little tiresome in April. She shivered and hurriedly made her way up to her apartment.

She flipped on the light, expecting to find her mother asleep in the lounge chair, but she wasn't there. Was this one of the rare nights when she'd managed to move herself to the bed?

"Mom?" Margot called tentatively, setting her rifle case down behind the sofa.

She moved through the living room and down to the end of the hallway, cracking the door to her mother's room open. She was there on the bed, and Margot let out a soft sigh of relief. Except something didn't seem quite right.

"Mom?" she whispered.

She received no response.

Margot's heart rose into her throat as she flipped on the light and entered the room.

"Oh God..."

The words dropped from her mouth just as her backpack slipped from her shoulder, and she ran to the woman, who lay facedown on the bed, her face buried in a pillow, limbs extended stiffly.

"Mom!"

She turned the woman over, feeling for a pulse, finding nothing, attempting to revive her.

" _Mom_!"

She scrambled for her phone, calling for an ambulance, still trying to revive the woman.

"God, no…"

* * *

She was in the waiting room, the doctor's voice echoing in her head, when Alfred found her.

Margot didn't remember calling him, but she must have, because there he was, face full of concern as he touched her shoulder, saw the tears she held back, and pulled her into an embrace so tight it was as if he was trying to squeeze the sorrow from her. He'd had practice, she thought, realizing how many times he'd probably done that very same thing to Bruce.

"She's gone," she whispered when they parted.

He kept an arm around her shoulders and gently but firmly led her away. "Let's get you home," he murmured.

She'd ridden over in the ambulance, so she didn't need to worry about her bike as Alfred led her to the car, making sure she was settled in. Margot sat in the back seat, staring quietly through the window as they left the hospital, driving through the dark streets.

It was raining.

He didn't take her home, but to the manor instead. Margot wasn't surprised, nor was she particularly upset. She didn't want to return home, where just an hour previously, she'd found her mother.

The worst, she thought as Alfred opened her door for her, was that she felt relieved in a way. No more trying to enforce strict diets on the woman, no more expensive doctors' visits and hospital bills and insurance copays, no more being awakened in the middle of the night to take care of somebody else's needs. Did that make her a horrible daughter?

Alfred took her to the kitchen, where he sat her down and poured her a drink.

"Thanks," she said with soft gratitude.

He nodded, pouring himself a drink and sitting beside her. "You should stay tonight. It's not good for you to be alone right now," he told her.

She wasn't sure she agreed, but Alfred wasn't intrusive. He simply sat quietly at her side, nursing his drink, waiting for Margot to speak—or not speak at all, depending on how she felt.

She simply drank, and when her glass was empty, he poured her another. The warm burn of the scotch as it went down her throat seemed to numb the ache that she felt inside. She'd known it would happen sooner or later, that her mother would leave. It had felt like slowly tearing off a bandage, a slow, agonizing process. And now that the bandage had finally and abruptly been ripped off, she felt nothing but a numb kind of ache.

One thing surprised Margot, though. She'd thought that she would feel alone, abandoned, and in a way, she did. But to reach the hospital in the time that he did, Alfred had to have left immediately after receiving her call. He'd come straight to her, looking put-together as usual, except now that she looked closer, she noticed that he'd missed a button on his waistcoat, his tie was unusually askew, and his hair was ruffled.

That didn't feel like being alone to her.

"Where's Bruce?" she asked quietly.

Alfred glanced at her. "Asleep." His brow furrowed, and he added dubiously, "Or reading files by flashlight under the covers."

Margot smiled weakly. The latter sounded more accurate. "Are you sure he'll be all right with me staying?"

"Nobody could understand your predicament more than Master Bruce," he pointed out.

She nodded. "Thank you, Alfred."

"Of course, Margot." He rested a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently. "Bruce and I…we care for you a great deal, you know."

Margot knew that. She'd felt it before, but she'd never heard it, and hearing Alfred tell her that he cared sparked a hint of warmth inside her that soothed her hurting in a way that the scotch couldn't. The drink just numbed her. Alfred's words, the look of concern in his eyes, it made her feel strong, it gave her something to reach towards, to cling to. She'd be all right, because she wasn't alone.

Maybe it was gratitude, or just a surge of emotions that refused to be bottled up. Maybe it was the drink. Whatever it was, Margot barely had time to think before she reached out, grabbed the man, and pulled him into her, meeting him in a fiercely desperate kiss, inhaling sharply and breathing in the scent of his cologne, tasting the scotch on his lips, the saltiness of his skin, feeling his warmth, warmth that radiated from him like a furnace.

For a moment, it filled her, that kiss, like a flash of light in the darkness, consuming her sorrow, her pain, and she felt warm and safe.

Until he pulled back, avoiding her gaze, pushing her away gently. "Yes, well…" he murmured uncomfortably. He reached for her glass and moved it out of her reach. "That's enough of that."

Margot felt as if she'd been drenched in cold water. "I-I'm sorry," she stuttered. "I don't know—"

Alfred looked up at her, smiling kindly as he hushed her. "Come here," he told her as he stood and helped her to her feet. "Let's get you up to bed."

He led her to a guest room with his arm around her, sitting her on the settee at the foot of the bed while he made a quick pass through the room, making sure she had everything she'd need.

"Looks like everything's in order," he said with satisfaction. "We'll see what to do about clothes in the morning," he added. "How does that sound?"

She nodded without looking up at him.

He hesitated, and she felt his gaze on her for several moments, before he tucked his hands behind his back and murmured, "Well then, I'll just be off. If you need anything, Margot…"

"Thank you," she whispered.

He left, glancing back one last time before he closed the door softly behind him.

She slowly peeled off her jacket and kicked off her boots. She didn't see the shell casing that dropped to the floor and rolled under the settee, the casing that she'd picked up and tucked in her pocket so that she'd leave no trace behind when the police came searching on the roof, looking for the sniper that had killed four men that week, the one they joked was doing their job for them by taking out various criminals with links to the gangs.

It simply lay on the carpet, half hidden in shadows while Margot finished undressing and crawled under the soft covers of the bed, probably the biggest and nicest bed she'd ever slept in. Except she didn't sleep. She just stared up at the ceiling, smelling the hint of gunpowder residue on her fingers every time she reached up to wipe her face.

Gunpowder. She'd killed a man just a few hours ago, left him dead in the street. Up until that point, she'd managed her guilt by convincing herself that her targets were bad people, and she was doing it for a good cause. But where was her good cause now? Her mother was cold and stiff in a morgue, while she was in a warm bed, in a room that smelled faintly of freshly cut flowers and wood polish. Nothing had come of her sacrifice, except a debt that was starting to seem like it would never be paid off, and even once it was, she would still be a killer.

She didn't belong there, in that warm bed. She didn't deserve the kind of concern that had carried Alfred so quickly to the hospital. What would he say if he knew?

She tried to tell herself that he'd never find out, but that was an exercise in futility. He'd find out one day. She'd slip up. The police would catch her. Or Freddie would swing by at just the wrong time. Or maybe the guilt would just explode from within her and she'd confess.

Whatever happened, she knew she couldn't stay at the manor. She was dangerous. And even if she would never do anything to harm Bruce or Alfred, she couldn't promise that she could protect them from the other dangerous people she was involved with. She wished she'd never entered that nightclub, that she'd never seen Freddie that afternoon. She hadn't felt like she had a choice then, but now it was even worse. Her life was a prison that she couldn't escape.

Something had to be done. She had to protect Bruce and Alfred. Even from herself. They didn't deserve to be dragged into her world. She shuddered as she thought that. Her world. Gang wars and hits and deals under the table. It repulsed her down to every last fiber of her being. But it was her world. It had become her world, and she was slowly acclimating to it.

Margot stared up at the ceiling and felt the tears spill over.

Wayne Manor was the world she wanted, the safe haven she'd always wished for. She'd come so close to having it, too, so close to becoming a part of it. But she couldn't be a part of both worlds. The longer she tried, the closer they came, and one day both worlds would meet, and she didn't want Bruce and Alfred becoming a part of it. For their sake, she'd have to do the most difficult thing she'd ever done.

She'd have to leave.

* * *

Alfred was in the kitchen the next morning, and he looked up with a smile when Margot entered. Wiping his hands on a dishtowel, he draped it over his shoulder and greeted her pleasantly, but not so cheerfully that it was off-putting.

"Good morning. Fancy anything for breakfast? Eggs? Toast? Pancakes?"

Margot had intended to lead into it, to let him down gently. But when she saw him, heard the caring in his gruff voice, the guilt overwhelmed her.

"I have to go."

Alfred stared at her, his brow furrowing slightly. "You what?"

"I can't work here anymore. I'm sorry."

The man was dumbfounded. He stood in numb silence for a moment before replying, "If this has anything to do with last night—"

"No," she interrupted. "I've just…I've given this a lot of thought. I need to leave."

"To do what, may I ask?" he inquired with an edge of steel in his voice. Now that the idea was sinking in, he seemed to be resisting it forcefully. "You can't just up and leave." His tone softened a bit, and he added, "Take the time that you need, but don't quit."

Margot stared at the floor, her shoulders hunched, hands in her pockets. "Alfred…" she began, shaking her head.

He reached for her, taking her by the shoulders. His grip was so firm that it almost hurt. "You can't go," he insisted, forcing her to meet his gaze. "You're more than a gardener to us, Margot. Bruce needs people he can trust. He needs you. _I_ need—"

She stopped him before he could continue. "No." She forced her voice to be steady as she explained, "I've made up my mind."

Alfred was breathing fiercely through his nose, struggling not to lose his temper, but when he spoke again, his voice was soft. Pleading, almost. "Don't go."

"I'm sorry."

She pulled away from him and pushed past him, letting herself out the kitchen door.

She could feel his eyes piercing her accusingly as she left.

* * *

 _Dun dun DUN! I just thought I'd give a quick "thank you" to you all for bothering to read up to this point. I really do appreciate those of you that have favorited/followed/reviewed so far. I even appreciate you silent readers. ;)_


	21. Chapter Twenty

_"We're going off tonight  
To kick out every light,  
Take anything we want,  
Drink everything in sight.  
We're going till the world stops turning,  
While we burn it to the ground tonight."_

 _"Burn it Down" –Nickelback_

* * *

Chapter Twenty:

"Give me a job."

Margot stood at the end of the long table, her fists resting on it as she stared at the man at the other end.

"A bit eager, are we?" Penguin noted with an amused smile.

She was eager. Eager to throw herself into the pit so that she could fight her way out. She'd do whatever it took. She just wanted it to be over. She wanted the debt hanging over her head to be gone so that she could forget that she'd ever made the mistake of sacrificing her good standing, her pride and honor, to help a woman who had abandoned her in the end, leaving her with nothing but debt and an empty apartment.

Because everybody left eventually.

That was the way of the world.

"Yes," she said, regarding the man hostilely, ignoring the other eyes that were on her—the guards in the doorway, Cat at the end of the table. "Just give me a job."

Penguin shrugged. "I'd be happy to, Margaret, but there's just nothing I can give you right now."

She slammed her hands on the table, startling everybody in the room. "Give me a fucking job!"

Penguin hardly blinked. "Butch—" He nodded to a man that stood by the fireplace.

The man inclined his head, stepping forward towards Margot.

"Don't you lay a fucking hand on me!" she warned Butch as he approached.

He ignored her, grabbing her by the collar of her jacket.

She pulled away abruptly, yanking him forward by the arm and thrusting him into the ground, twisting his arm behind his back. "I told you not to touch me," she snarled.

Something sharp suddenly burned into her neck, and she jerked as searing electricity coursed through her. She dropped to the ground limply, and the man who had tased her dragged her from the room, heaving her from the building and out onto the street.

Margot lay on her back, staring up at the dark sky, hearing vehicles and people pass by, giving her wide berth. To them, she was just another lowlife, probably high. And they were right. She was no better than scum.

Somebody approached after a few minutes, and Margot found herself staring into Cat's curious green eyes. "Get up," said the girl, offering her a hand.

"Go away," Margot responded coldly.

The girl frowned at her. "What's your problem?"

"I don't have a problem," she growled, slowly pulling herself into a sitting position.

"You have a problem," Cat asserted. "Nobody asks for jobs."

"What do you know?" she retorted.

The girl just glared, crouching on a nearby set of stairs. "You used to be cool. Now you're just a junkie looking for another fix."

And before Margot could reply snidely, the girl disappeared.

* * *

The job came eventually.

This time, when Penguin slid the photo across the table, Margot recognized the target. A man who'd recently been on the news. A hero, not a criminal.

She looked up with a frown. "I can't take this job."

"You will," said Penguin with surprising intensity. "You will kill him."

"Why?"

"You don't ask why!" spit the man, rising abruptly from his chair. "You do as I say!"

"He's not a criminal! I don't kill innocent people!"

Penguin looked sharply at her and suddenly began to laugh. "Margaret, my friend, he's no innocent." A thought seemed to cross his mind, and he continued, "Kill this man, and I promise, I'll let you out of your contract. Think of it as your last job. Then you're free."

She hesitated. "My last job?" she echoed.

"You'll never hear from me again."

Margot stared back down at the photo of the smiling man. She'd seen him on the news. He'd saved Bruce at the children's hospital gala. She would have done that once. Just weeks ago, if she'd been asked, she would have leapt in front of a train to save the boy. She still would, she supposed, but it wasn't her place. Honestly, it never had been. And here this stranger came along—

"Fine."

If it meant her freedom, there was no price too high.

Besides, everybody in Gotham had a dark secret. Surely this man was no different.

* * *

She scaled to the top of the building, realizing how familiar she was becoming with the rooftops of Gotham. From her position, she had a perfect view of the penthouse across the way. The curtains were closed over most of the windows, but there was an opening through which she had a glimpse of the elevator door.

When Theo Galavan passed through that door, he'd get a bullet in the head.

Margot waited, pulling her coat tighter around her shoulders. It wasn't a particularly chilly night, but she was shivering anyway. This was it. Her last hit. Then she'd be done, and she could move on.

What would she do? She wasn't sure.

She couldn't go back to Wayne Manor. She'd quit. She'd been gone for weeks, picking up stray jobs here and there to scrape enough together to pay rent.

She could leave Gotham.

She'd thought about it before, wondered what it would be like. Of course, back then, she'd had things keeping her there. Her mother. Her schooling. Her job. Now she had none of that.

Below, a car pulled up to the front of the building. Margot trained her scope on the figure that exited the car. It was him. Her target.

She didn't have a clear shot from there, so she'd have to wait for him to take the elevator and enter the penthouse.

Her phone suddenly rang, startling her. She'd forgotten to put it on silent.

Cursing, she rifled through her pockets, pulling the phone out to turn it off, but she caught sight of the caller ID. Wayne Manor.

She glanced through her scope. Galavan was probably already in the elevator, on his way up. Who was calling her from Wayne Manor? Bruce? Alfred?

Margot wasn't sure why, but she found herself answering the call almost automatically.

"Hello?"

"Margot."

Alfred's voice jolted her like a shock of electricity.

"Alfred," she replied.

"Terribly sorry to bother you," he said, though the tone of his voice was crisp and perfunctory, as if he didn't really care at all. "Master Bruce has expressed to me that he wishes to invite you for tea tomorrow."

"Tea?" she inquired in surprise, pressing her eye to the scope again. Still in the elevator.

She hadn't spoken to Bruce since before she'd quit. She'd just disappeared quietly from his life, hoping that he'd accept that. Apparently not.

"I'd say it's the least you could do," replied Alfred coolly, "considering the horticultural bind you've left us in."

There it was, the light above the elevator. The door opened and Galavan stepped out, pausing in front of it to check his phone. It was her shot.

"Margot?"

Alfred's voice tugged at her just as her finger touched the trigger. She hesitated.

Some unseen person said something, and Galavan looked up, pocketed his phone, and stepped out of sight.

Margot released her grip on the rifle with a soft sigh.

"All right," she agreed wearily. "I'll come."

"Teatime then."

The call ended with a click, and Margot leaned against the ledge of the building, closing her eyes and letting her head roll back in exhaustion. Tea then, at Wayne Manor. And then she'd take care of Galavan. Little did he know that Alfred Pennyworth had just prolonged his life.

* * *

She arrived early at the manor, her heart in her throat, her stomach in knots. She didn't feel ready to see Bruce, to face the questions he surely had. And Alfred, well he'd made it clear over the phone that he wouldn't be happy to see her.

She hoped to go unnoticed for a bit, so that she could wander through the gardens, just to reminisce. She'd been happy there, she realized. It seemed so distant now.

Alfred was at the door as she got off of her bike and pulled her helmet from her head.

He watched her from the doorway, noting, "You're early."

"I know," she replied. When he didn't say anything, she tentatively inquired, "You don't mind if I have a walk through the gardens, do you? For old times' sake?"

"I'll accompany you," he said with a curt nod.

Margot was silent as they walked side by side over the grounds. She tried to focus on the plants, but she found herself casting furtive glances at the man beside her, while he simply stared stonily ahead.

Finally, the silence was too much to bear. "Your new gardener has a heavy hand when it comes to shrubbery," she observed.

"He's only filling the position temporarily," said Alfred without glancing her way. Something about the way he answered made her suspect that he was the temporary gardener. Had they really not filled the position yet?

Maybe they didn't want to.

"You and Bruce didn't invite me here to convince me to take back my old job, did you?" she inquired suspiciously.

"No."

There was almost something heavy and accusing in that "no".

They walked for a bit longer, before it began to drizzle, and Alfred suggested that they go inside.

Margot agreed.

In the study, Alfred offered her a chair, which she took. He stood by the window, watching as the drizzle slowly turned into a steady downpour. An uncomfortable silence fell over the room.

"Is Bruce coming?" she asked after a while.

"Why did you quit, Margot?" Alfred inquired, turning to face her.

She saw the lines on his face, the exhaustion that seemed to bear down on him like a great weight.

"I decided it was time to move on to something else."

"Move on to what? What exactly have you been up to?"

Margot was startled and a little shocked by the sharp tone in the man's voice.

Alfred approached, reaching into his pocket and setting something down forcefully on the table in front of her. It rolled and came to a stop, a shell casing for a .300 Win Mag slug. The caliber of bullet that she used. The casing she hadn't noticed fall out of her pocket the night her mother had died.

"Where did you get that?" she asked hoarsely, looking up at him in horror.

"I expect that you didn't intend to leave it behind, then," he responded icily. "Why are you carrying around empty casings, Margot? And what exactly are you doing with sniper rounds?"

She stared up at him quietly, searching for anything to say, anything but the truth. But it was the truth that reluctantly spilled from her lips as she sighed heavily and dropped her head into her hands.

"I didn't have the money to pay my mom's hospital bills," she confessed tentatively, feeling almost relieved to finally say it aloud. "I borrowed it from Fish Mooney. It was stupid," she admitted. "It was fucking stupid, but I didn't know where else to turn." She looked up and added, "I thought it would be fine, but she made me work to pay off the debt, and when she disappeared, somebody else took over. That's when I realized I wasn't getting out. I didn't want you and Bruce to get involved, so I quit."

Alfred was silent for a long time, and when he spoke his voice was quiet, but there was an undercurrent of fury that made Margot flinch.

"Why the hell would you do something so foolish?" he hissed. "If you were in trouble, why didn't you come to us?"

"What would you have done?" she retorted. "I didn't think I had a choice!"

"There's always a choice!"

Margot got to her feet. "I have to go."

Alfred stopped her with a hand on her arm. "Are you still involved in this?"

She didn't answer, avoiding his accusing stare.

"What do they have you doing?"

"I've got it taken care of," she told him, glaring up at him.

"How? I know fellas like these, Margot. If you don't pay them cash, they'll hang the debt over your head indefinitely. You'll be a wind-up toy that they send to do their bidding."

"I can handle myself."

She wrenched her arm from his grasp and hastily left the room. She paused in the corridor to gather herself before she left, climbing onto her bike and speeding away.

Alfred hadn't followed her. Of course he hadn't. Why would he? He was there to protect Bruce from people like her.


	22. Chapter Twenty-One

_"Show me what it's like  
To be the last one standing,  
And teach me wrong from right  
And I'll show you what I can be.  
Say it for me, say it to me,  
And I'll leave this life behind me.  
Say it if it's worth saving me."_

 _"Savin' Me" –Nickelback_

* * *

Chapter Twenty-One:

Margot stood over the stove, heating a can of soup when the doorbell buzzed. It startled her. She hadn't heard the doorbell in what felt like ages. Most people just knocked. Not that many people visited.

She frowned and checked her watch. It wasn't very late, but she still didn't know anybody who would visit at that hour of the evening.

Turning the stove off, she made her way to the door, which she opened cautiously.

Bruce stood in the doorway. Alfred was just behind him, looking very unhappy.

Margot took a step back in surprise. "What are you doing here?"

Alfred's brow rose. "Are you going to invite us in, or shall we converse here in this charming vestibule?" She saw the distaste in his eyes as he glanced around, heard it in his voice.

Any other time, such a comment would have angered her, but not that evening. She simply stepped back from the door and invited them inside, turning on the light.

The living room was dusty and bare, almost as if nobody lived there. Nobody did really. Margot spent most of her time in her bedroom or out on the streets.

"You want something to drink?" she asked, wondering if she had anything but tap water and Jim Beam to offer.

Bruce shook his head as he perched tentatively on the sofa, sinking into the worn upholstery. "No, thank you."

"Sit," Margot said to Alfred, who was standing at the end of the sofa.

"I prefer to stand," he replied curtly.

She eyed him warily for a moment, but took a seat on the edge of her mother's lounge chair. "What brings you here?" she asked.

She noticed Alfred shoot a glance at Bruce that expressed the greatest displeasure.

"Alfred said you were in trouble," Bruce told her.

Margot glared up sharply at Alfred. "It's nothing I can't handle."

"That's not the impression I have," Bruce replied.

She seethed at Alfred. "Where do you get off telling him?"

"He wanted the truth," the man explained shortly. "Believe me, I wouldn't be here if it weren't for Master Bruce's insistence." He stared accusingly down at the boy. "I still don't think we should be here."

"Alfred, we talked about this," Bruce replied calmly, a sharp barb hidden in his voice.

Alfred pressed his lips together and clasped his hands behind his back, but he remained silent, his disapproval rolling off of him in waves. Margot wondered what kind of conversation they must have had to create such tension.

"Tell me what you need," the young man continued, turning back to Margot.

She shook her head. "I can handle it, Bruce."

"Can you?" he inquired skeptically. "How much is this debt of yours?"

"Twenty-thou," she replied uncomfortably, "but I've knocked it down to ten."

"Alfred," said Bruce without looking at the man.

The butler's frown deepened, but he reluctantly reached into his coat and pulled a checkbook from his pocket, which he handed to the boy.

"No—" Margot began to protest emphatically, but Bruce silenced her with a stern look before beginning to write out the check.

She watched as he slowly tore the check from the book, her face burning with embarrassment. Receiving help from a twelve-year-old boy. Maybe for a billionaire, ten-thousand dollars wasn't anything, but to Margot, it was more than six months' of pay. She couldn't stand the thought of accepting something like that from the boy.

He held it out to her, but she didn't move to take it.

"I'm not a charity case," she told both Bruce and Alfred firmly. "I'm managing fine on my own."

"Right," said Alfred as he glanced around the small, dark apartment. "Looks fine to me."

"I didn't ask either of you to do this!" Margot retorted, getting to her feet. "Where do you get off, coming here and judging me? I don't take donations!"

"This isn't a donation," Bruce interjected, also standing up.

Margot eyed the boy suspiciously. "Then what is it?"

"You can have the money to pay off your debt. But I'm not giving it to you for free. It's an advance. I want you to come back to work for me."

"What?" She took a stumbling step backwards and almost fell into the lounge chair again. Her gaze flickered to Alfred, who was glaring darkly at her. "Bruce, I can't—"

"Make it happen," the boy replied, setting the check down quietly on the table.

Margot stood in shocked silence.

Alfred turned to Bruce and jerked his head towards the door, muttering, "Wait outside a moment, will you, Bruce?"

"Yes, Alfred."

"In the car," he added warningly, "and lock the doors."

Margot watched as the boy left calmly. She looked at Alfred again, and met his disapproving gaze. "I want you to know that I am wholeheartedly against this," he growled, advancing on her. "I only told the boy because he demanded to know why you weren't at tea yesterday."

"And you couldn't make something up?" she inquired bitterly.

"He has a right to the truth, Margot!" the man responded.

"And I have a right to be left in peace!"

For a moment, the fury melted off of Alfred's face, and he seemed tired. "You'll never have peace. Not like this. So," he added, recapturing a bit of the steel in his voice as he nodded towards the table, "Take the money. Get yourself out of this debt. But—" he took a step forward and raised a finger warningly at her "—know that you're returning only at Master Bruce's behest, and against my better judgement. One false move, and I'll put you down myself."

By then, he was close enough to Margot that she could feel his breath on her face, see the gunmetal flecks in his blue eyes as he gazed steadily at her. And she saw that he wasn't lying. He'd kill her.

If it ever came down to it, she'd let him do it, too.

She dropped her gaze to the floor. "I would never do anything to hurt the two of you," she whispered emphatically.

"Yeah, it's too late for that, innit, treacle?"

And then he left.


	23. Chapter Twenty-Two

_"My eyes are open wide.  
By the way,  
I made it through the day.  
I watch the world outside.  
By the way,  
I'm leaving out today."_

 _"Second Chance" –Shinedown_

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Two:

Margot didn't believe in second chances, which is why she was so confused by Bruce's willingness to offer her one. Alfred, it seemed, agreed more with Margot's way of thinking than Bruce's. She was dangerous, with dangerous connections. She didn't deserve a second chance.

"What are you doing here?"

Margot glanced up and met Cat's gaze as the girl dropped down from the ledge above. "I need to see Penguin," she said quietly, fingering the strap of hundreds she had in her pocket. The teller at the bank had eyed her suspiciously when she went to cash the check, but she'd given Margot the money, and now she was about to be free. Well, free in one sense. She almost felt as if she was simply trading one jailer for another.

"What about?" asked the girl.

"Why do you want to know?"

Cat shrugged. "Just curious."

Margot was about to brush past the girl when something stopped her. "Why are you always hanging around here now?"

"Moving up in the world," she replied flippantly.

Margot pointed at the stark building and told the girl, "This isn't moving up."

"Look who's talking," scoffed Cat.

Margot shook her head and mounted the stairs.

Inside, she waited in the foyer for a while before the guard at the door let her pass. Penguin was waiting by the fireplace, staring pensively into the fire.

"What brings you here?" the man asked, not looking her way. "The job's not done."

"I'm not doing it," said Margot, slapping the strap of hundreds onto the table. "Here's the money."

Penguin slowly turned towards her, his lips pursed in displeasure. "Just where," he asked acerbically, "did you find so much cash, Margaret?"

"That's none of your business," she replied coldly. "In fact, any business we have, you and I, is over."

He forced a smile and took two limping steps forward. "Come now, my friend. We've surely had our difficulties, but there's no need to be snippy."

"We're not friends," stated Margot. "And if you or any of your people try to contact me again, start looking over your shoulder, because I'll put a bullet through your skull."

With that, she turned away and started to leave.

"You'll need me one day, Margaret Vallant!" Penguin called after her, his voice shaking with fury. "I'll remember this when you come back for another favor!"

She shut his voice out of her head as she left the building and descended onto the street below, limping away.

She hadn't felt so much relief in a long time.

* * *

Bruce and Alfred were at the front door when Margot rode up on her bike the next morning.

"It's good to have you back," said Bruce with a smile, extending his hand in greeting.

She took it and nodded brusquely. "I suppose it's good to be back," she replied, well aware of the hard way Alfred was staring at her.

"Right, Master Bruce, you've exchanged your pleasantries. Now why don't we let Miss Vallant see to her work?" Alfred's arm went protectively around the boy's shoulders.

"Is there anywhere in particular I should start?" she asked.

Bruce opened his mouth, supposedly to make a suggestion, but Alfred spoke first.

"That's your business. You concern yourself with the grounds. Master Bruce, it's time for your studies." And with that, Alfred led the boy firmly inside.

Margot slowly made her way around the manor, back to the shed. Alfred had been there. She recognized the telltale signs of his need for order. Everything had been cleaned and organized. In fact, it was almost unrecognizable compared to what she'd been used to. Mr. Harrison's methods had been less rigid, and she supposed she'd picked up some of his habits, not seeing the need for change.

Picking up the clipboard, she slipped a fresh piece of paper under the clip and decided to take a walk around the grounds, just to see where things stood. She spent the morning making notes: the hedges had been neglected, the grass needed fertilizing, it was about time to replace the flowers in the planters, and the wisteria seemed to be suffering.

"Well, old friend," she said, placing her hand on the weathered trunk of the vine, "looks like it's you and me."

She returned to the shed with plans to see what she could do about the wisteria that afternoon. She'd need some fertilizer, as well as her pruning shears to cut back some of the extraneous growth. When she went looking in the corner where the fertilizer was usually kept, however, she didn't find it.

Frowning, Margot combed through the shed, wondering if Alfred had moved it. No. It seemed that all of her stock of fertilizer had simply disappeared.

She hesitated for a moment before wiping her hands on her pants and reluctantly heading up towards the manor to inquire after her fertilizer. It was time for lunch anyway.

Just as she reached for the knob on the kitchen door, however, the door swung inward on its own. Margot took a step back when she realized that it was Alfred standing there in the doorway.

"Going somewhere?" he asked.

"Yeah. The kitchen," she responded bluntly.

If he moved at all, it was only to further block the entrance. "Were you now?"

Margot looked at him wearily. She knew she deserved his suspicion, she deserved the distance, and the hard looks, and the coldness. But she was tired of it just the same. It was torturous, returning to the manor, to a job she loved, and being constantly reminded that she didn't deserve to be there. The happiness she'd found there had been a lie, because she had lied, and now that Alfred and Bruce knew who she really was, that feeling of belonging was gone.

"Damn it, Alfred," she sighed heavily, "I can't do this today."

He held fast. "Shall I fetch you a glass of water? Or will you be getting back to work?"

Looking away, she stuffed her hands into her pockets and clenched her jaw, resisting the urge to let her knuckles connect with his chin. Instead, she growled, "What did you do with my fertilizer?"

The man hesitated for a moment. "Fertilizer. Right. You'll have to order more. We used it for a science project of sorts."

"There were ten bags of the stuff!" Margot exclaimed. "What the hell did you need ten bags of fertilizer for?"

Alfred frowned at her, but didn't reply. Instead, he simply repeated, "You'll have to order more." And he shut the door in Margot's face.

* * *

Margot was resting on the bench under the wisteria, massaging her sore knee when Bruce approached, carrying a sandwich on a plate and holding a glass of lemonade.

"Thought you could use this," he told Margot with a tentative smile.

"Does Alfred know you're out here?" she inquired, trying to hide her surprise.

He shook his head. "No. Why?"

"Because if he knew, he'd probably start taking shots at me," she replied wryly.

Bruce snorted softly as he sat down, offering Margot the sandwich and the drink, which she took gratefully.

"Alfred thinks you're not trustworthy."

She nodded. "He's probably right." Glancing at him, she added, "I shouldn't have done what I did."

"Alfred said you borrowed the money to help your mother."

Margot looked at him with surprise. "Alfred told you that?" She frowned, wondering why the man would even think to add that detail, instead of just telling Bruce that she'd been a complete idiot and taken dirty money.

Bruce nodded. "Is it true?"

She sighed and rested her elbows on her knees. "Yeah. My mom was sick. She needed medical attention, and I didn't have the money to pay for it all. I'd been turned down by everybody else. I never intended to end up working for the mob." She scoffed bitterly and added, "Fat lot of good it did."

The boy stared down at his hands, silent for a while before he looked up at Margot. "I would have done the same, I think."

"What?"

His face was pensive, sad, the expression making him seem so much older than his twelve-going-on-thirteen years. "If I could have saved my mother," he whispered, "I'd have done anything."

Margot placed her hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. "Bruce…"

"Oi! Master Bruce!" Alfred's shouts echoed over the grounds as he approached at a near run. "Get your bloody arse back inside," he growled. "And as for you—"

"Yeah," Margot interrupted irritably. "Work."

"That's right." He pivoted and stalked away with his hand clenching the back of Bruce's collar as he reprimanded the boy. "I don't want to catch you alone with her again, do you hear?"

Margot snorted, trying not to let it bother her that she was being treated like nothing more than a common criminal. She was, technically, but what Bruce had said… It shook her.

And it all made sense, suddenly, why he'd forgiven her so easily, why he didn't seem to care about what she'd done. Because he could understand that she'd only wanted to help her mother get the treatment that she'd needed. He understood how much she'd wanted to save her mother, because every day, he probably woke up with the same desire to have his parents back.

And of course Alfred didn't understand that. Maybe he could have, under different circumstances, but Alfred was Bruce's guardian, his staunch and loyal defender. He was only able to see the danger of Margot's decision, drawing the attention of mobsters to herself, turning herself into a cold-blooded assassin. Of course he didn't want her anywhere near the boy. Even if he knew in his heart of hearts that she would never hurt them intentionally.

He still had to look out for the boy's safety.

She understood him. She agreed with him wholeheartedly.

But she was still grateful for Bruce and his ability to look past her mistakes, his calm acceptance of what she'd done, and the way he refused to let her deeds define her. Because to him, she was still just Margot, the gardener with the limp, the one who made jokes and teased him, and gave him her jacket when jokes and teasing and comforting words wouldn't work.

To him, she was who she wished she could always be.


	24. Chapter Twenty-Three

_"When the night has come,  
And the land is dark,  
And the moon is the only light we'll see,  
No I won't be afraid,  
Oh, I won't be afraid,  
Just as long as you stand, stand by me."_

 _"Stand by Me"–Ben E. King (cover by Mona)_

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Three:

"Margot!"

Alfred's voice drew Margot out of her work, catching her off-guard. It was only a steady hand that kept her from lopping off the top of the topiary.

"Alfred," she replied, eyeing him warily. "I was just finishing up."

"I'd like to have a chat with you," he said tersely.

That didn't sound good.

Still, it wasn't as if she had much of a choice. "Can I finish this?"

"Now."

She sighed and followed the man inside, shears still in hand. He led her to the kitchen.

"Am I finally allowed back in here?" she inquired dryly.

He ignored the jibe and pointed to a chair. "Sit."

She sat.

"What's this about?" she asked, trying not to sound nervous.

The man simply sat across the table from her, and clasped his hands together in front of him. "I want you here," he said.

She frowned in confusion.

Seeing her perplexed expression, he clarified, "I think it's best that you stay here at the manor."

Margot sat back in wonderment, frowning curiously at the man. Just last week, he'd barred her from even entering the kitchen. Now he was inviting her to stay? "Why the sudden change of heart?"

"I know what you're up to when you're here, don't I?" he pointed out. "It's what you do when you're in the city that troubles me."

She laughed in frustrated disbelief. "I see. You want to keep an eye on me."

"Given the circumstances, I'd say I have every right to do that," he responded.

Margot glared fiercely at him. "Look," she told him firmly, leaning forward and meeting his steely gaze, "I loved this job. I loved working here." She jammed her finger pointedly on the table's surface to emphasize each word. "It was the best thing that ever happened to me, and I gave it up when I needed it—when I needed the two of you the most, because I didn't want to do anything to risk hurting either of you!" She inhaled and exhaled deeply through her nose, watching Alfred as he processed what she'd said. "I made a terrible decision," she admitted in a softer but no-less-stern voice, "and I'm sorry for it. You can lord it over my head for the rest of my life if you like. But don't you dare accuse me of not caring for the two of you. I'd die before letting anything happen to you or Bruce."

Alfred regarded her quietly. Finally, he shifted and leaned forward as well, looking her directly in the eye. "I believe you," he said.

"What?" Margot jerked back. She'd expected a cynical jab, shouting perhaps, but not that.

The man sighed and drew a hand tiredly down his face as he leaned back. He hesitated for a moment before he reluctantly admitted, "I understand that you were in a difficult bind when you made that decision. But," he added with emphasis, "Bruce's wellbeing comes first. Always."

"I know," she agreed quietly.

"People like me—like us…we can't afford to make mistakes. And we certainly can't keep secrets."

Margot nodded and lowered her gaze. "You're right." Shaking her head, she stared fixedly at the table and added, "I really am sorry. I never thought it would turn into what it did, and even then, I thought I could fight my way out of it."

Alfred sighed again and murmured quietly, "Margot, you're not a fighter."

She glanced up. "I'm a soldier," she reminded him bluntly. "That's what we do. We fight."

He shook his head. "Not all soldiers are fighters. You're a defender. While all the fighters are down in the middle of things, you're up above it all, aren't you? Keeping them safe, defending them. You protect."

She shrugged her agreement. As a sniper, many times that was exactly what she had done, keeping the soldiers below her safe from enemy fire. Taking out dangerous targets before they could hurt people. But what did that matter to Alfred?

He reached out to her, placing his rough, warm hand over hers. "I know you'd give your life for Bruce if necessary."

A nod was all she could manage as she stared at their hands. She hadn't realized before how valuable a simple touch could be.

The man's face became more solemn, and he pulled away. "But you lied to us, Margot." The stress he put on the word "lied" sent a shudder down her spine. "You turned to the wrong sources for help, and I'm sorry that you felt you had to go to them before coming to us. I want to trust you. I _wish_ I could trust you."

There was something about the disappointment on the man's face that made her crave his trust, leaving an emptiness inside her when she realized what she'd lost when she betrayed that trust.

"I'll be honest with you," he said, "I have half a mind to tell you to leave and never come back."

"Please," she whispered. "Don't."

He regarded her calmly, his lips compressed into a tight line. "No more secrets. No more lies."

"I promise."

"You know what happens if you break that promise."

She was quiet. "You'll turn me in?"

Alfred shook his head. "I'll kill you, luv."

* * *

 _Sorry for the short chapter. I may or may not do a double update to make up for it. :O_


	25. Chapter Twenty-Four

_A/N: This chapter takes place somewhere within episode 2.7 "Mommy's Little Monster". Thanks for sticking with it so far! I have a feeling things will start to pay off between Margot and Alfred very soon. ;)_

* * *

 _"I'm so happy because today  
I've found my friends—  
They're in my head.  
I'm so ugly, but that's okay, cause so are you.  
We've broken our mirrors.  
Sunday morning is every day for all I care,  
And I'm not scared."_

 _"Lithium" –Nirvana_

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Four:

Alfred came to Margot's apartment early the next morning. "All packed and ready, I expect?" he said by way of greeting.

She glanced around the apartment, then at the two suitcases sitting by the door. Her rifle case rested behind them. She nodded and sighed, "Yeah."

"Shall I help you with your bags?"

He didn't wait for a response. He lifted the gun case, gazing down at it for a moment before he held out his hand to her. "The key."

She realized he wanted the key to her rifle case. That was only fair, she supposed. She wasn't going to get rid of a thousand-dollar rifle with a scope that was worth twice that much mounted on it. Especially not if it might still prove to be useful at some point. But Alfred wasn't going to let her into the manor with a rifle and the key to the case.

Margot reached into her pocket and removed the key from her chain, dropping it into Alfred's waiting hand. He pocketed it quietly, and then picked up one of her suitcases and swiftly carried that and the rifle down to the car. Margot followed with her other suitcase in hand, locking the apartment door behind her. She dropped the apartment keys in the manager's mailbox on her way out, handing her suitcase to Alfred, who placed it in the trunk of the car.

He got into the car, and she straddled her motorbike, strapping on her helmet and following him until they crossed the bridge. Then, with a smile, she revved up her motor and sped around Alfred, pressed close to the bike as she shot down the road. It whined beneath her but remained steady. It had been a long time since she'd ridden like that, hard and fast, just for the sake of enjoying it. Soon she was at the gates of Wayne Manor, Alfred pulling up just as she'd parked and removed her helmet.

"You're going to turn yourself into bloody roadkill," he told her disapprovingly as he stepped from the car.

"I haven't yet."

"Yeah, that's sound logic," he retorted under his breath, opening the trunk. He helped her carry her things to her room. Of course, he kept the rifle.

"I'll put this somewhere safe," he assured her.

She nodded.

It was only fair, she told herself, turning towards her things and beginning to unpack.

* * *

Margot was worried that staying at the manor would cause additional and unwanted tension, but she was surprised to find that things seemed—if possible—less tense. Alfred was probably just relieved to know that Margot wasn't sneaking off to the city every night to live her double life as a hired assassin for thugs. She noticed that he kept checking, passing by her room two or three times a night, just to see that she was still there.

It made her feel like a criminal on parole. Well, that was actually almost accurate. She wondered why Alfred hadn't simply turned her in to the police, or disappeared her himself. She'd betrayed his trust, after all. Had he and Bruce spoken at all about her? Had Bruce explained to Alfred why he'd forgiven her? Had he really been convincing enough to sway a man almost forty years his senior?

She wanted to tell Alfred everything herself, express the depths of her remorse, explain that she woke up every morning with guilt and self-loathing for what she'd done, that sometimes she didn't sleep at all because of the nightmares. The idea of hurting either Bruce or Alfred made her feel physically ill, because she would never…

Never.

She would tell him how profoundly she cared for them, and it would sound flat, false, because of what she'd done.

That's why she didn't tell him anything. She simply worked, quietly keeping her distance the way Alfred expected her to. And Bruce obediently stayed away from her for the most part, though every so often they'd pass each other in the corridor or out in the gardens, and he'd smile and greet her pleasantly.

Of course, she didn't see him often. Lately, Bruce spent a lot of time away, not just at school, but in the company of his new friend, Silver St. Cloud.

Margot saw the girl from a distance, very pretty and put together as far as thirteen-year-olds went. Maybe that's why she didn't like her. She'd known girls like Silver. They'd been the ones that wrote awful things about Margot's best friend, Sam, in the bathroom stalls. Sam, who'd cried in the corner of the locker room. Sam, who'd gotten high under the bleachers when she was only thirteen, just to numb the pain. Sam, who'd stuck a gun in her mouth one night, because pulling the trigger was easier than enduring one more day.

The other girls had laughed the next day when Margot cried in fifth period.

She hated to admit it, but those girls still held some strange kind of power over her, though they were all long gone, grown women with college degrees and pretty husbands, perfectly poised children adorning their Facebook feeds. Margot was a Marine, a fucking sniper for chrissakes, but back then, she had just been another thirteen-year-old girl.

Speaking of, Margot glanced up from the petunias under the front windows and caught sight of Cat creeping cautiously through a window.

"Hey!" she called out. "What are you doing here?"

The girl froze and glanced her way.

Margot stood, about to chase the girl away. Cat, who had once been somewhat welcome at Wayne Manor, a guest even, was involved with Penguin. And now that Margot finally had a chance at proving herself to Alfred, she wasn't going to blow it.

At least not until she saw a tear streaking down the girl's face.

"Go away," Cat told her as she stalked across the lawn. "I was leaving anyway."

Margot caught her by the back of her jacket and stopped her. "What is it?"

"Like you care," the girl retorted, brushing her off.

"Cat—"

The girl whirled on her. "Buzz off! Stop trying to pretend that you belong here."

That stopped Margot long enough for Cat to make her getaway.

She stood silently and stared after the girl.

Only moments later, a car pulled up in the driveway, and she watched as Silver got in, wiping her eyes, and left.

Something had obviously happened, and it reeked of young teenage drama to Margot. She shook her head and picked up her gloves and her spade, deciding to call it quits for the afternoon. She dropped her things off in the shed and made her way to the kitchen to wash up.

Alfred was there at the sink, washing dishes.

"Did you know Cat was here?" she asked, sitting at the table while she waited to use the sink.

"You mean Miss Kyle?" he replied without looking her way. "Yes, I was aware of it. Why?"

"She left in a hurry."

"Yes, well, doesn't she always? First sign of trouble and she disappears quicker than a sailor on shore leave."

Margot was about to insist that something seemed to be wrong when the kitchen door swung open and Bruce entered, looking distraught.

"Alfred, I need to go into town."

Alfred turned to him. "Everything all right, Master Bruce?"

"Yes. I need a ride into town."

"I heard you the first time. Will you give me a minute to finish up?" He nodded at the water that was still running.

Bruce shifted anxiously from foot to foot.

Margot stood. "I'll finish the dishes," she offered.

Alfred looked at her. "Margot—"

"I know how to wash dishes," she interrupted.

"That's not—" he began, only to be cut off by Bruce this time.

"Alfred," said the boy in a pleading voice. He seemed anxious.

"All right, all right," Alfred gave in. "I don't see what all the fuss is about."

Margot took the butler's place quietly as he and Bruce left. She wondered which of the two girls Bruce was going to chase down. Personally, she thought they were both dangerous in their own way. Cat, who cared for the boy, but was involved with unpleasant people. Silver, whose intentions were difficult to discern, cold and aloof, and maybe just a little too interested in the young man.

Either way, Margot was happy it was none of her business.

She finished the dishes and then made her way up to her room, where she took a long, well-deserved bath before drawing up a few sketches of her plans for the south grounds. She'd likely need Alfred's approval before she began making any changes to the landscaping, and to have that, she'd have to show the man that she'd put some thought into it. Fortunately, Bruce and Alfred were gone for quite some time, giving Margot the solitude she needed to finish up the sketches.

Eventually, though, she heard the buzzer sound faintly downstairs, as it always did when a car came through the front gate. Glancing through the window, she saw the glow of the headlights and caught a glimpse of one of the Waynes' sleek black town cars as it pulled around towards the garage.

Bruce and Alfred were back.

She looked at her clock and realized how late it was. Bruce's business in the city had taken quite some time.

Margot quietly packed up her things for the night and started to get ready for bed. She was just settling under the covers when she heard a knock at her door.

"This is why I prefer living alone," she grumbled to herself as she rose to answer.

It was Bruce.

"I'm sorry to disturb you so late," he apologized. "I was hoping to have a word."

"Of course," Margot replied with mild surprise, opening the door further to let him in. "What's up?"

"What do you know about girls?" he asked, taking a seat in a chair.

Margot sat down on the corner of her bed and considered the boy thoughtfully. "Besides being one myself?" she responded with a teasing smile.

He was too distressed to be amused.

She sighed. "What do you want to know?"

Bruce hesitated, before suddenly spilling out, "Selina attacked Silver today. I don't know why. She just…doesn't seem to like her."

So there it was, she realized. The reason for all the drama earlier.

Margot was tempted to tell the young man that maybe Cat had a point. But it wasn't her place to get involved. Trying to be impartial, she stated instead, "It's best if you learn this now, Bruce. Girls your age are weird. Now look, I don't know Silver, and I don't really know Cat—"

"Who does?" he joked softly.

She smiled and continued, "But, I will tell you this. Cat comes around a whole lot more often than you think. I've caught her prowling around here more than once."

"Selina?" he inquired in surprise. "Why?"

Margot shrugged. "It could be she feels protective of you."

She was about to say something else, but a knock sounded on the open door, interrupting her.

Alfred stood in the doorway.

"Everything all right?" he asked, glancing warily between the two of them.

"Yes, Alfred," replied Bruce, turning in his chair to face the butler. "I was just asking Margot for some advice."

"Advice?" inquired Alfred, pursing his lips and regarding Margot thoughtfully. "On how not to shoot yourself in the foot, I suppose?"

"Girls, Alfred," Bruce responded with a hint of long-suffering.

"Ah. And you thought what? That she'd know something about girls?"

Margot got to her feet, unamused. "I think he means that you should probably get going," she told Bruce.

He nodded and also rose. "Thank you, Margot. I found your advice…enlightening."

She smiled and walked him to the door. "Anytime. Goodnight, Bruce."

"Goodnight, Margot. Alfred."

"Goodnight, Master B. Will you be needing anything before bed, sir?"

"No, thank you, Alfred."

The man shifted to the side to let Bruce pass, but otherwise remained in the doorway once the boy had left, watching Margot curiously.

"Shelling out advice now, are we?" he inquired, his skepticism twisting his face. "You're turning into a regular Dear Abby, you are."

Margot pointedly ignored him. "Is there a lock on this door?" she asked, testing the handle.

"Yes," said Alfred. "Why?"

"So I can keep you out." And she closed the door on him.

* * *

Margot woke early the next morning, intending to go for a short run to warm up her leg before work, only to barely avoid a collision with Alfred in the corridor. He was massaging his shoulder with a bit of a grimace.

"You get into a fight or something?" she inquired.

"Training Master Bruce," he responded brusquely.

"More boxing?"

"Something like that." His eyes narrowed as he asked, "Why?"

She shrugged. "Just curious."

For some reason, she started to bounce on her toes, circling the man, jabbing experimentally, almost playfully at him. "You think he's ever going to need it?"

One of her jabs came a little too close for comfort; Alfred had to dodge out of the way, a disapproving frown on his face. "It's about discipline, perseverance, and precision. Skills one could use in any situation, not just fighting."

"Yeah? Show me." She continued to dance in a circle around him, fists up defensively.

Alfred scoffed. "I'm not going to fight you, Margot."

"I'm sorry, did little Bruce tire you out?" she taunted, throwing a punch at his face.

He didn't dodge this time. He threw one hand up, blocking her blow with his forearm, his other fist jabbing her painfully in her ribs.

She grinned, backing up and holding her hands in front of her face. "Looks like the old man has game."

"You're a little bumptious for a cripple, don't you think?" he retorted.

They circled each other slowly. Margot noticed that Alfred moved smoothly, light on his feet, each motion very carefully measured. He was aggressive, too, now that she'd gotten him started. He came at her, crowding her, keeping her on the defensive with several blows. She blocked them, waiting and watching for an opening.

He was careful not to let up, and she realized that she'd have to make an opening. So she dropped her arms, bracing herself for the inevitable blow. His fist connected firmly with her stomach, and she doubled over, the wind knocked out of her.

"Bloody hell, Margot!" he cursed with a hint of concern in his voice. "You weren't supposed to—"

She suddenly swung with a leg, sweeping her foot under him as she grabbed his shoulder and pushed him back. The man lost his footing and landed with a bump on his backside.

"Ha!" she crowed triumphantly.

Growling, Alfred reached out and snatched her by the ankle, yanking forcefully.

Margot let out a cry of surprise and fell to the floor, banging her elbow painfully. "What the hell!" she protested with mild irritation, rubbing her elbow with a rueful grimace. "That was my bad leg!"

"You think your opponent's going to play fair, do you?" he responded as he slowly got to his feet, offering her a hand up.

She took his hand and let him pull her to her feet. "And here I thought you were a gentleman," she teased.

"And here I thought you knew how to fight," he answered with a small smile.

Margot couldn't help but grin. For once, the conversation wasn't forced, there was no awkward undertone, no sense of mistrust. Almost as if she belonged again.

"I'll take you anytime," she told him confidently, jabbing at him one last time.

He caught her fist in his hand, meeting her gaze steadily. She saw something different in his eyes this time, and it caught her off-guard. She took a stumbling step backwards, wondering if she'd read his expression right. Alfred looked at her for a moment longer before forcibly releasing his grip on her fist and stepping back himself.

Pointedly avoiding her gaze, he murmured, "Yes, well, I should be getting on. I won't keep you any longer."

With that, he left, while Margot watched him in consternation, still wondering what it was that she'd seen in his expression, right before he'd distanced himself again. He was probably still wary about trusting her. She understood that. But this felt different, almost as if he was trying to hide something from her. For a moment, she'd thought she'd seen something sad in his eyes.

No, that wasn't quite right. Not sadness.

Longing.

And Margot suddenly wanted to know what it was Alfred Pennyworth, the stiff and proper butler, could possibly long for, and why he was so keen on concealing it from her.


	26. Chapter Twenty-Five

_A/N: This may or may not be the only update this week because of things, but it is long, and it is definitely rated M. :O Hope you enjoy..._

* * *

 _"Is it you I want, or just the notion  
_ _Of a heart to wrap around so I can find my way around?  
_ _Safe to say from here,  
_ _You're getting closer now,  
_ _We are never sad 'cause we are not allowed to be.  
_ _Rain, rain go away,  
_ _Come again another day,  
_ _All the world is waiting for the sun."_

 _"Rain" –Breaking Benjamin_

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Five:

Margot noticed that both Alfred and Bruce seemed pensive and troubled about something the next day, but she was too tentative to ask. It wasn't her place to intrude. If they wanted to tell her, they would.

Still, that afternoon, when she entered the kitchen for a drink, she found Alfred sitting there at the table, staring grimly at his hands. He hardly seemed to notice her. Maybe it was his bleak expression that drew Margot nearer. Whatever it was, it stopped her and forced her to face the man.

"You look like you could use an ear," she suggested quietly.

He glanced up at her with a soft scoff. "You're not an ear. You're a mouth, and a damned impertinent one at that."

She didn't move, and after a moment he sighed and nodded at the chair across from him.

"Sit."

"What is it?" she asked with concern.

"It's Master Bruce." He was silent for a while, then his hands suddenly clenched into fists and he growled, "The boy has enough bloody things to deal with without everybody in Gotham trying to take advantage of him." He stewed for a few moments, absently turning the ring on his little finger before he said to no one in particular, "Just let him be a child."

"Who's trying to take advantage of him?" Margot inquired, feeling her hackles rise at the very thought.

"It's that Galavan bloke," Alfred explained wearily. "Wants Master Bruce to sign over Wayne Enterprises. Says he knows who killed his parents and that he'll tell him if he sells him his shares in the company."

She shivered a little, remembering the unusually tall man she'd seen through her scope, the man she'd almost killed. And she'd wondered why. She'd asked herself why somebody like Penguin would want him dead so badly.

"Alfred…" she said quietly, trailing off, wondering if she ought to tell him.

He looked up at her expectantly.

She sighed shakily. "You should know, there's something not right about him. Galavan."

Alfred frowned, the creases on his face deepening. "What do you mean?" He didn't seem as surprised as she'd thought he would be. Granted, when a grown man asked an adolescent boy to hand over his multi-billion-dollar company, that was a red flag right there. A flag that Alfred had obviously noticed.

Margot didn't meet his gaze. "I'm not sure. I just have a feeling." She considered telling him the entire truth, that she was sent to kill the man, but she couldn't bring herself to admit it.

"How do you know?" he inquired with suspicion, knowing that she knew something he didn't.

She shrugged. "Have you met him?" Waiting for him to nod, she then asked, "Don't you feel...a little odd around him? Almost like he's too friendly?" Margot had personally never met the man, but she'd seen him, and knowing that Penguin wanted the man dead was enough to raise her suspicions. Once she'd noticed, it was hard not to see it.

Something was wrong with Galavan.

Alfred cursed under his breath and sat back in his chair. After a moment, he clenched his fist and struck the table with it. "Damn."

"What?"

He shook his head. "I'm to take Master Bruce to see Galavan tonight. He may just sign the company over to him."

Margot sat forward in alarm. "You can't let him do it," she insisted.

"And how am I to stop him, eh?" the man retorted. "It's his decision to make."

She couldn't argue. "In that case…" She rubbed her face tiredly with her hands and looked up at the man. "Be careful, Alfred."

"No need to tell me that," he responded, getting to his feet. He turned to go, but paused and turned back for a moment. "Thank you, Margot, for confirming my suspicions."

She nodded, listening to his footsteps as they receded.

* * *

Bruce and Alfred returned earlier than Margot expected.

In fact, she was still in the kitchen, perusing the cupboards with the intentions of making herself something to eat, when Alfred entered, shedding his coat and draping it neatly over the back of a chair.

"Back so soon?" she asked hesitantly, searching the man's face for any hint of emotion.

He went to the cupboard and pulled down a couple of glasses, then reached for the half-empty bottle of scotch on the top shelf, which he plinked down on the table, pulling out a chair for Margot.

She took it tentatively and let him pour her a glass.

"You were right," he finally admitted in a soft growl as he sat across the table from her.

"And? What about Bruce?" Margot inquired, more concerned about Bruce than with being right about Galavan.

Alfred looked up at her, a small smile growing on his face. He understood her. He felt the same way: Bruce first, everything else second.

"He did not sign away the company," he informed her, barely able to contain his relief and the quiet pride he felt for the boy's decision. "In fact," he added, "you may be surprised to know that hardly five minutes into our visit, the GCPD showed up to arrest Mr. Galavan."

Margot reached for her glass with a trembling hand and took a sip. Her voice sounded calmer than she felt as she murmured, "Somehow, I don't find that surprising."

"Care to know what the charges were?"

She waited for him to enlighten her. He leaned forward on the table, turning his glass between both hands. "They said he'd kidnapped and tortured Mayor James."

"What?" she exclaimed in surprise.

"Yes." He sighed and leaned back, taking a long draw of his drink. "You knew something was wrong. How? And don't give me that bullshit about weird feelings."

Margot met his gaze. She knew she would tell him—lying was not an option—but she worried for a moment about his reaction.

Finally, staring down at her glass, she confessed, "I was sent to kill him."

"And you didn't think to mention this before?"

"Look, I don't really like to talk about those jobs," she replied quietly.

Alfred didn't look at her for a while. Eventually, he noted, "You didn't kill him."

"No."

"Why not?"

She finished her drink in one gulp, not sure she felt brave enough to tell him the truth. She did, though. "You called."

He frowned, opened his mouth to say something, then shut it again. After a moment, he inquired, "You answer your bloody phone on a job?"

His voice was gruff, almost unfriendly, but Margot knew that tone well. He'd used it often enough with Bruce, hiding softer emotions behind a rough, growling voice. She could tell he was surprised by her answer. Could it be that he was pleased by it as well?

That thought gave her the courage to admit, "I just…saw that it was you. It was stupid, yeah, but I wanted to hear your voice, I guess." She scoffed and shook her head with chagrin, trying not to let herself get her hopes up. The last time she'd shown any emotion for the man…well, it had gone poorly.

Alfred watched her silently from his place across the table, his eyes burning into her. Margot would have given anything to know what was going on in his head at that moment, what exactly the man was thinking.

But she couldn't read minds, and the silence was beginning to feel awkward, so she slid her chair back and got to her feet. "I should probably go," she said with a wan smile. "You look like you want to be alone."

She turned away, only to hear Alfred's chair scrape back on the floor and feel his hand on her arm. He gently, firmly turned her around to face him.

"No, Margot, I don't," he murmured hoarsely. "I really don't want to be alone."

She looked at him, saw the expression in his face, the way his blue eyes stared fixedly into hers. He was closer than usual, and even as she noticed this, he started to pull her even closer, and suddenly he was kissing her—hard—pushing her up against the counter and grinding his body into hers, and she kissed him back with just as much force, her fingers twisting in the fabric of his waistcoat, pulling him as close as possible, like they were trying to occupy the same space at once and almost succeeding.

God, it was incredible the way he kissed her, like a dying man at the fountain of life, frantic, frenetic, desperate. Hell, it was a small miracle to Margot. She never would have imagined…

Alfred suddenly seemed to realize how forceful he was being, and he took a step back. Margot stumbled a little, stepping more firmly than she should have on her lame leg. She nearly lost her balance. She had to hastily grope the counter to remain upright, flinging her arm out to catch herself and knocking over a crock of utensils, which clattered noisily onto the floor. The crock itself landed on Alfred's foot.

"Bloody hell!" he moaned, holding his leg and wincing.

Margot tried to apologize, but he cut her off.

"Come here," he growled, grabbing her and dragging her out into the corridor, up the stairs, and towards his room. He seemed intent to do so while maintaining as much body contact as possible, turning their migration into some strange and awkward mating dance, punctuated by the occasional collision with the walls.

They paused for a moment, Margot pressed up against the door, Alfred pressed up against her, kissing her while his hand groped for the doorknob.

"I should offer you dinner at least," he murmured into her neck.

"It can wait," Margot replied just as the door opened and swung inward behind her.

Alfred caught her before she could fall. Of course he caught her. It was just the sort of thing he'd do before casually flipping on the light and kicking the door closed behind them.

A part of Margot didn't believe that she was really there, stumbling backwards and tumbling onto Alfred's bed, joined by him, their hands intertwined above their heads while he stretched out over her, the buttons of his waistcoat catching on the zipper of her jacket. She couldn't quite explain how they'd gotten there.

 _With a lot of tripping_ , she thought wryly.

 _Stop joking_ , she chided herself.

This was serious.

But she wasn't able to keep from feeling ecstatic, giddy as Alfred descended down her throat, his lips following the line of her collar as he slowly unzipped her jacket, opening it, removing it, his hands sliding under her shirt, pulling it over her head, his rough palms scraping softly over her torso, raising goosebumps on her skin.

God, she felt hot.

A knock suddenly sounded at the door, and a small voice called through it.

"Alfred?"

The man froze, his gaze shooting towards the door as he hissed, "Bugger!"

The next thing Margot knew, she was on her feet, ushered hastily across the room, and deposited in the closet. The door closed, opened, and her clothes were thrust into her arms before the door closed again.

"Master Bruce," said Alfred moments later, sounding completely unruffled as he answered the boy's knocking. "Come in."

Margot heard Bruce's soft footsteps on the carpet, a quiet thud as he dropped into a chair. "Alfred," he murmured in a troubled voice. "About tonight…"

Bruce trailed off into hesitant silence.

"You made the right decision," the man reassured him.

"Did I? Was it worth it?"

"Master B—"

Margot wanted to listen, but she was suddenly distracted by the fact that her bra wasn't in the bundle of her clothes. She vaguely recalled feeling it snap open beneath Alfred's surprisingly nimble fingers, but when had it slipped from her shoulders?

Oh, God.

Had it fallen off between the bed and the closet? Was it just lying on the floor, waiting to be noticed? What if Bruce saw it?

" _Shit_!" she hissed softly.

Apparently sound carried better through the door than she'd expected, because there was a silent pause in the room outside, and then Bruce's quiet and confused query.

"Alfred, were you aware that somebody is hiding in your closet?"

Margot froze, mortified.

Alfred sighed and was silent for several moments.

"Yes, Master Bruce," he finally admitted, knowing he'd been caught. Raising his voice, he added, "You can come out, you lairy minx."

Margot heard him approach and hastily threw on her shirt, greeting the man with an apologetic shrug when he opened the door.

He let her pass with a defeated kind of air about him.

Bruce had risen from the chair, and seemed pleasantly surprised to see her.

"Margot," he greeted her with a smile. "What are you doing in Alfred's closet?"

"Borrowing a…" She glanced hesitantly at Alfred, who simply stood in stoic silence. "…needle and thread?"

"Oh," said Bruce, eyeing her skeptically for a moment. He turned to his butler. "Alfred."

"Yes, Master B?"

"You might try a tie on the door handle next time," he suggested calmly. "I've heard it's quite effective."

Alfred flushed and cleared his throat. "And what would you know of such things?" he inquired sharply.

Bruce shot a look of long-suffering at the man. "I read a book, Alfred." And with that, he bid them both a polite goodnight and escorted himself from the room.

Margot dropped to the floor immediately to search for her missing bra, which she found half-obscured under the bed.

"This was a terrible idea." Alfred sank with a heavy sigh into the chair that Bruce had recently vacated.

Standing, Margot slipped out of her shirt and strapped on her bra. "It wasn't a terrible idea," she reassured the man. "It was just…executed poorly."

He looked up at her with chagrin, glancing away when he saw that she wasn't yet completely dressed.

"I'm assuming you're not up for continuing where we left off," she noted with a hint of amusement, pulling her shirt back on.

"And I suppose you are?" he retorted with wry disbelief.

She shrugged. "Worse has happened. I'd settle for dinner, though, if you're still offering."

The idea seemed to smooth at least some of Alfred's ruffled feathers.

"Yes," he agreed with a nod, rising to his feet. "I believe that's a reasonable alternative."

Margot smiled and let the man lead her back down to the kitchen. She curiously slipped her hand through his. His whole body went rigid at her touch, but she didn't let go, and he didn't pull away, at least not until they reached the kitchen.

"Do you like Italian?" he inquired, pocketing his cufflinks and rolling up his sleeves.

"I like spaghetti," she replied with a shrug.

He snorted as he tied on his apron. "Right. And I suppose you like pizza, too." Alfred tossed her an onion and added, "Start slicing."

She reached for a knife and dutifully began to cut up the onion, though her eyes strayed for a bit when he bent to pick up the utensils that she'd scattered across the floor the last time they'd been in the kitchen.

He caught her watching him. "Oi! What are you staring at?"

Margot hurriedly turned her attention back to the onion, unable to hide a smile.

Alfred knew his way around the kitchen. She'd noticed it before, but she was still surprised by how quickly he threw something together, and how exquisite it tasted.

"What did you say this was?" she asked midway through her plate of pasta.

"Fettuccini alla carbonara," he replied quietly, watching her with a mild expression of pleasure as she ate. "You like it, then?"

Margot nodded. "Where'd you learn to cook anyway?"

He shrugged. "I picked it up."

She laughed softly and shook her head. "Is there anything you don't know?"

Alfred pursed his lips and regarded her curiously. "I don't know quite what to make of you," he said after a moment.

Margot looked at him in surprise before admitting, "I could say the same about you." She paused, frowning for a moment as she added, "To be honest, I thought you'd never..."

"What?"

She avoided his gaze. "Forgive me."

He watched her calmly, with a bit of a furrow between his eyebrows. "You told me once that there was always a war in Gotham, we'd just never noticed it. You were right." He sighed and shook his head as he added, "You know as well as I that in war, it just takes one bloody mistake to get everybody killed." His eyes flickered up to hers and he murmured, "You quite nearly did just that. Of course I was upset. I was furious, because you're not one to make that kind of mistake."

"I know," she agreed. "Believe me, I wouldn't have done it if I'd thought I had any other choice. I just wanted to help my mom."

He nodded watching the light play through his glass of wine as he tipped it back and forth. "Yes. And you left to protect Bruce. Margot," he looked up, "that's why you're here right now. As long as you're willing to do anything to protect the boy, I can work with that."

"It sounds like you're training me to be some kind of bodyguard," she joked.

"Bruce needs people that will defend him," said Alfred seriously. "Your instinct to protect, that ferocious loyalty—I need somebody that can put him above everything else."

"Like you do," she noted.

"Yes."

They sat in moderately comfortable silence for a few moments, before Margot reached out for his hand. "Thank you," she whispered, "for the second chance."

He inclined his head, mulling something over for a moment before he finished off his wine. A small, suggestive smile touched his mouth as he leaned forward. "Speaking of second chances…"

Margot grinned.

She helped him clear the table, thinking with amusement that drying the dishes he washed was much less romantic than climbing all over each other and leaving behind destruction in their wake. But she still felt a familiar flutter in her stomach when he reached for her hand and led her quietly up to his room.

He shut the door, locked it, and turned to her, pulling her close and bending his head to kiss her. It was a gentler kiss than the others, and when they separated, he remained near, putting his lips to her ear, as if he were about to whisper something sweet.

"You kiss like a bloody soldier."

Margot looked up at him sharply. "What the hell does that mean?" she inquired defensively.

"It means you're combative and stiff as a board," he replied. "Loosen up, luv. Your tongue's not a bloody bayonet."

"Oh, like your technique's perfect," she retorted with a scoff, adding with an arched brow, "Maybe I like a bit of combativeness. And I could do without you judging everything I do."

Alfred's eyebrows shot up as he protested, "I'm not judging. Giving you a bit of friendly advice, perhaps—"

She grabbed his waistcoat by the lapels and ripped it open, letting buttons scatter across the floor. The man's wince disappeared before it could really form as Margot snagged him by his braces and growled in his ear, "Stop talking and fuck me."

"Right. Come here, you little minx."

Alfred lifted her right off the floor and deposited her onto the bed, where he undressed her the same as before, tossing her shirt and her bra aside and letting his hands wander over her skin, exploring the curves of her body.

He held her breasts in his palms, squeezing just to the point of discomfort, but not past it, slowly brushing his thumbs across them. Smiling slightly, he bent his head and lowered his lips to them, his breath hot against her skin, his tongue warm and wet and surprisingly agile. She arched upward into him, gasping quietly, wondering how long it had been since she'd let a man touch her like that.

Quite some time.

Margot was only worried about one thing. She'd told herself that it would be all right, that it had to happen sooner or later, but she still cringed as she felt the man slowly descend down her front, leaving a damp trail of kisses behind. He reached her jeans and slowly unbuttoned them, carefully sliding them down her legs. She kept her eyes closed tightly, not wanting to see his face when he saw them.

"My God," he whispered quietly.

Both legs were severely scarred from the burns and the trauma of nearly being blown apart. Her left leg was by far the worse of the two, smooth and waxy red from mid-thigh down, with ridged white filaments that spider-webbed across it, and a long scar that hooked around her knee, where a jagged piece of shrapnel had torn it open. They were horrifying, even to Margot, who saw them every morning when she dressed. The scars were something she'd never get used to; she could hardly expect anyone else to simply ignore them.

Margot tentatively opened her eyes, knowing what she'd see on Alfred's face—the very same expression she received from anybody who saw her scars, the same expression she saw on her own face when she looked at herself in a mirror.

Pity. Horror. Disgust.

When she finally felt brave enough to look, though, she saw something completely different, something that made her even more uncomfortable. It was a tender expression that she had trouble defining.

"Now you know why I don't wear shorts," she joked weakly, trying to dispel her own discomfort.

Alfred glanced up at her, meeting her gaze, but he didn't smile. He ran a hand slowly, gently up her left leg as he bent and pressed a kiss to the inside of her knee, then an inch higher, another inch higher. His lips sent shivers coursing through the sensitive nerves in her leg. She would have enjoyed it very much indeed if she hadn't been so embarrassed and self-conscious of how ugly the scars were.

"God, Alfred, please don't," she pleaded, wanting him to just forget about her leg and leave it alone.

He looked up. "Why?" His eyes looked straight through her and into her insecurities. "Margot," he murmured, moving up to join his mouth briefly with hers. "It's just a scar." He stripped down to his undershirt, which he pulled up and tossed away. "I have quite a few of them myself."

He did, and he let Margot touch them. Some were faded and almost impossible to see. Others, like the fairly recent knife wound, were still quite obvious. She noticed bruising, too, and briefly wondered what that was from.

He took her hand and lifted it to his mouth.

"Scars like that mean you did something important, Margot. Something worth risking yourself for."

She nodded, though she still didn't seem convinced. "I guess."

He smiled warmly. "Come here. I'm not through with you yet."

Margot let him kiss her slowly, searchingly, as he lowered her back down onto the mattress, cradling her head in one hand, running the other hand softly over her body. It was hard for her to worry about scars when Alfred seemed so intent on demonstrating his affection. His fingers slid down her abdomen, brushing over her hip, pulling her a little closer before slipping into her damp skivvies.

God—to feel Alfred's hand cup her, his fingers gently exploring, stroking, curling into her. Her breath hitched in her throat, one hand clenching the bedsheets tightly, if only to keep her grounded while she dug her other fingers through his short, coarse hair. He was firm, gentle, and quick to pick up on what she seemed to like. With his body so close to hers, she could feel his warmth, the slightest movement of his muscles, even the telltale bulge in his trousers.

"Alfred," she moaned his name, pressing herself into him, biting her lip hard. He had her so close to the edge already, his middle finger deep inside her, the pad of his thumb rubbing against that raw bundle of nerves with just the right kind of pressure.

He chuckled—a deep, thick sound in his throat—and pulled away right as she reached the edge, careful not to let her go over it.

"Not yet," he whispered against her skin, giving her a cheeky kind of smile as he dragged her skivvies down her legs and held them up curiously.

"Military regulation?" he inquired, dangling the black briefs from one finger.

"Old habits," she replied breathlessly.

Margot was now completely exposed in front of the man, trying not to worry too much about what he was thinking as he briefly let his eyes trail over her.

She hadn't opened up like that in a long time, not since before her injury. She didn't like feeling weak and vulnerable, even if it was just Alfred. Hell, especially since it was Alfred. She admired him more than anybody else she knew, and was therefore that much more intimidated by the man, even when he was half-naked and his hair was ruffled and sticking up at odd angles.

Well, at least he was quickly becoming less than half-naked, already sliding out of his trousers with a look in his eyes that said he was done playing around. He finished undressing and reached into the drawer of his nightstand, removing a small foil packet from within.

"Two months," he told her, raising an eyebrow. "That's how long I've wanted to use this."

Margot couldn't help but smile, a little surprised by his forwardness. "Two months?" she inquired softly, trying to remember what, if anything, had happened two months ago. Before her mother's funeral. Before she'd met Penguin. Right before graduation, as a matter of fact. "Why didn't you say something before?"

"It never felt right."

"And I suppose now it feels right?" she responded wryly.

"Let's find out, shall we?"

And he took her into his arms, smiling at her, drawing the back of his curled hand down the side of her face.

"You all right, luv?" he asked quietly, noting with a hint of concern, "You're trembling."

"Nerves."

"What the hell do you have to be nervous about?" he whispered.

She shook her head and let out a soft, embarrassed laugh. "I don't know. I really don't know."

"Yeah? Well, stop it. You're making me nervous."

Margot laughed a little more easily this time. Alfred, nervous. Now there was a thought, even if he was just saying it to make her feel better. She looked up at him, met his gaze, saw a smile on his face, felt the gentle, reassuring squeeze of his hand on her waist.

He didn't need to say anything else. She knew that he thought she was capable and strong and worth a second chance.

She was grateful for that.

She was grateful for him—for his gentle, understated strength, the way he moved with her, considerate of her lame leg, the way he drew her into him, held her close, as if she was his only concern. Their meeting was just rough enough and just gentle enough to be what she needed: slow and controlled at first, then not, her arms thrown around his neck, holding him near, his head so close to hers that she could smell the faint scent of the pomade in his hair.

He didn't let go, not even when she collapsed, trembling, into a heap onto the mattress. He fell with her, joining her in one last tender kiss, his lips quivering slightly, his body inextricably tangled with hers.

That's probably why she didn't start scrambling for her clothes and leave immediately, as she was prone to do in such situations. She avoided eye contact as they pulled apart, but when he settled quietly on his back under the sheets, she moved into the space he left for her, letting him drape an arm around her shoulders as she rested her head on his chest. She liked being held by the man, feeling his warmth surround her.

Alfred suddenly let out a soft laugh, the sound resonating beneath Margot. She lifted her head curiously. "What?"

"It's nothing. I'm just remembering something a mate said about you."

"It wouldn't have to do with pretzels, would it?" she replied suspiciously.

He glanced sharply at her. "You heard that?" She nodded, and he moaned with a wry chuckle, "Oh, God."

She laughed and laid her head on his chest again, absently trailing her fingers down his torso, stopping to trace every scar. In a way, he reminded Margot of her combat boots, the ones that had survived three tours and seven years of training and combat. Well-used, with holes worn in them, and a few places that had been duct-taped closed, they weren't pretty at all, but they'd been broken in perfectly. They had been the most comfortable pair of shoes she'd ever owned.

Alfred was like that. Flinty and particular, sarcastic and sometimes downright surly—not the kind of man she'd ever imagine herself with. But she'd never felt so comfortable in a man's arms, as if she fit there because he'd been broken in just for her.

Granted, she couldn't help but remember suddenly that her boots had been destroyed by the bomb that nearly killed her. Wasn't that always the way with good things? They never lasted. Margot wondered with a hint of worry just how long this good thing would last. Was it already over? Had this simply been a one-time adventure and then tomorrow he'd be distant and cold to her again?

"You look pensive," Alfred noted quietly, brushing his thumb over her furrowed brow. "What is it?"

"I was thinking about combat boots," she replied, eliciting a perplexed laugh from him.

"Dare I ask?"

She smiled and shook her head, pressing herself farther into him. She didn't want to ruin a perfectly amicable moment with her selfish worries. His arm slipped from around her shoulders down to her waist, his fingers curling in the small of her back, tracing shapes softly over her skin.

"I don't think I've ever felt like this," she admitted in a whisper.

He glanced down at her. "Like what?"

She closed her eyes, listening to the sound of his breath, feeling the rise and fall of his chest, wrapped in his warmth and the smell of his sweat and his cologne, the sheets cool and damp around the both of them.

"Safe," she said.

Because that's what Alfred was. He was safe. He was a defender, like Margot, and she wanted nothing more than to feel protected for once, rather than being the one doing the protecting.

"You'll always be safe here," he reassured her, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head.

She could live with that.


	27. Chapter Twenty-Six

_"Remember all the times that we used to play?  
You were lost and I would save you.  
I don't think those feelings will ever fade.  
You were born a part of me.  
I was never good at hiding anything;  
My thoughts break me—  
Do you understand what you mean to me?"_

 _"Cure My Tragedy" –Cold_

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Six:

Margot woke alone.

At first, she wasn't quite sure where she was, then she recognized the room as a part of Wayne Manor. Thinking that it was her room, she was confused when she saw the waistcoat draped over the back of a chair, the buttons carefully sewn back on.

That's when she realized that she was in Alfred's room, naked, wrapped in sheets that still smelled faintly of sex. So it hadn't been one of those strange, drunken dreams. She lay quietly for a few moments, watching little particles of dust waft through a ray of sunlight that slipped through the drapes and illuminated the end of the bed. The clock on the nightstand read 8:03. She hadn't even noticed Alfred rise.

She didn't want to leave, despite the fact that she was alone and it was well past time to get up. She stared up at the ceiling, clenching the sheets in both hands, holding them up to her chin, going over every detail of the previous night.

God, it had been so perfect.

And it was over.

She rose reluctantly, gathering her things and pulling on her clothes long enough to make her way down the corridor to her room, where she showered and prepared for the day.

She'd be late for work, but she figured she had an excuse. Not that it had deterred Alfred, she noted. He'd probably been up for hours already.

Margot went down to the kitchen, where she found Bruce sitting at the table, staring with unnerving determination at his hands, which were clasped in front of him.

"What's up?" she inquired as she plucked an apple from a bowl of fruit.

The boy hardly glanced at her. "Nothing," he replied with a moody glower.

She got the impression that something had happened to upset the boy. She hoped it wasn't their awkward encounter last night. Margot wondered, but she wasn't about to bring it up.

Instead, she asked, "Where's Alfred?"

He scoffed. "Outside."

Well, at least she knew who Bruce was irritated at, though she didn't know why.

"Something wrong?"

Bruce glanced up at her, letting his dark expression fade a little. "No," he reassured her.

Margot hesitated, but she didn't press the matter. She left, finishing her apple as she made her way out to the shed to check the schedule. As she walked, she caught sight of a figure down by the pond. Alfred.

Frowning curiously, she approached and watched quietly as the man raked the muck out of the shallows. He seemed quite involved in it, working with an intensity that was unusual even for him. There was a second rake on the ground beside him.

"You know I was going to get around to that eventually," she commented from behind.

He jumped, startled, and whirled on her. "Don't bloody do that!" he exclaimed, though a faint smile crossed his face as she came nearer. "You nearly gave me a heart attack," he added in a quieter voice.

She reached for the rake in his hands and slowly pulled it out of his grasp. "Why are you doing my job?"

"Well, I…" he frowned a little as he searched for a reason. "…I thought Master Bruce and I would give you a hand this morning."

"Is that why he's inside sulking?"

The frown deepened, and Alfred shook his head. "No. He's sulking because he thinks he can get information out of Miss St. Cloud, and I have expressly forbidden him from seeing her."

Margot's brow rose, and she couldn't help but tease the man. "Alfred," she murmured, moving a little closer. "Forbidden? You sound so forceful. I like it."

"Stop it, will you?" he retorted, but she noticed the ends of his ears turn pink.

She just laughed and pointed out, "You know that forbidding a boy like Bruce is only going to make him more determined. He'll probably try to sneak out to see her later."

"You think I don't know that?" Alfred reached into his pocket and pulled something from it. A hotel key. Dangling it in front of Margot with a smile, he smugly replied, "I lifted this off him when he wasn't looking. He's not going anywhere." He paused, pleased with himself, and then picked up the second rake. "And neither are you," he added. "Help me do your job, will you?"

Margot just flicked muck onto his shoes.

* * *

Alfred disappeared after lunch, and Margot didn't see him again until late that evening, when he stopped by her room.

She was working on a few sketches for the hydrangea plot, which was still empty. It wouldn't be difficult at all to turn into a small rose garden, and she'd been planning on surprising Alfred. Hearing the knock, she barely had time to stow her sketchbook and her markers under the bed before the door opened.

"Yes?" she inquired.

Alfred took a hesitant step into the room. "Just checking to see if you required anything," he said with a small smile.

 _Right_ , thought Margot to herself, though she felt relieved to see the man there, waiting for an invitation to join her. All day she'd been distracted with worries that last night had been a fling, a fluke, never to be repeated. She'd never been happier to be wrong.

She smiled and teased, "Something hot would be nice. Tea, maybe?"

The man saw her amused expression and took it as the invitation he'd been waiting for. "Oh, I'll give you something hot, I will," he retorted as he crossed the room.

He sat on the edge of her bed and leaned in to kiss her.

She knew he hadn't come for conversation, but she couldn't keep from asking, "How's Bruce?"

Alfred's lips brushed her jaw and he held her by the shoulders as he slowly started to drag his mouth down her throat. "Sulking in his room," he murmured against her skin. "I caught him trying to take a taxi into the city."

"He's resourceful, but not very stealthy," she observed.

"I keep telling him. He doesn't have a deceitful bone in his body."

"That's not necessarily bad."

"I know it." Alfred sighed and pulled back a bit, regarding Margot wearily. "I only wish he didn't insist on learning such things."

She met his gaze, cupped the side of his face in a hand, and gently pressed her lips to the end of his nose. "He'll be all right," she whispered. "He has you."

Alfred smiled. "Yes. And I have you." His hands slipped down to her waist, where he unbuckled her belt and tried to work the buttons of her pants loose. "At least I will have you," he growled, "if I ever get these bloody trousers off you."

* * *

Margot decided she wanted pancakes for lunch the next day. Alfred had left to take Bruce to school and run a few errands, and she was pleased to have the house to herself for a bit.

Of course, Alfred eventually returned, coming down to the kitchen to ask her if she'd help carry in the groceries. He seemed intrigued when he found her at the stove.

Greeting her with a quick kiss, he set his armful of groceries on the table and inquired curiously, "What made you decide to be so domestic today?"

She shrugged. "I felt like pancakes."

"For lunch?"

"Don't judge me," she retorted. "Did you get the syrup I asked you for?"

"Yes," replied the man as he went through the bags. "It's out in the car." Turning to face her, he pointed out, "You realize that I could just make you syrup."

"I like the cheap stuff," she informed him, sliding the last pancake from the pan and turning off the stove. "I'll be back."

She ran out to the car and returned with a few bags of groceries, letting Alfred put everything away while she spread peanut butter and syrup on her pancakes and sat down to eat.

"You know," the man commented as he made room in the refrigerator for a few paper-wrapped packages of meat, "Bruce told me he has fencing practice after school this afternoon. Which means he'll be staying late." He glanced over his shoulder at Margot to gauge her reaction.

She didn't react.

Turning to her, he continued suggestively, "I'd say that gives us an extra hour…"

"Good. I need a hand fertilizing the lawns today."

Alfred frowned and took a step back. "You what? Margot, don't even joke about that."

She took a bite of pancake and looked up at him with raised eyebrows. "I wasn't joking."

The man's face fell a little, but when the time came, he dutifully followed Margot outside. She appreciated the company and the help. Fertilizing the lawns was long, boring work, but with Alfred, it was just a little more tolerable.

"When do you have to get Bruce?" she asked after couple of hours.

Alfred wiped his hands on his apron and checked his pocket watch. "In about an hour. Why?"

"You should probably go wash up then. You look like shit."

He glanced down at himself, saw the fertilizer that dusted him from head to toe, and chuckled. "Literally." Looking back up at her, he added invitingly, "Come with me."

"I still have work to do," she informed him. "You of all people should understand that. You never take a night off."

Alfred sighed, unable to argue. "Are you sure you don't want to join me?" He moved closer and murmured, "A hot shower…we'll pick up Bruce…go out to dinner, perhaps…a hot shower?"

"You said 'hot shower' twice," she pointed out.

"I know," he replied with a smile, adding with a soft growl, "We may need three hot showers before I'm done with you."

Margot did, in fact, want to do all of those things, but she had other plans. "Go," she told him with a laugh, pushing him gently but firmly away. "I'll see you when you get back."

"We're going to have a word about your work ethic when I return," he retorted as he turned to leave.

He seemed a little pleased, though, as he walked away, impressed by Margot's dedication to her work. Except it wasn't her work ethic that kept her from accepting the man's invitation.

She was over on the west side of the grounds when she saw him leave to fetch Bruce. As soon as he was gone, she hurriedly finished fertilizing the patch of lawn that she had been working on before making her way back to the shed.

It was locked up—she hadn't let anyone inside over the past couple of days. Opening the door, she smiled when she saw the rose plants she'd purchased, sitting undisturbed in their pots. She'd spent the morning digging holes for them while Alfred had been away on errands, and now she figured she had about an hour to plant them.

There were only five plants—it was just a small start, a bit of a surprise to let him know that she hadn't forgotten. She hoped to take him to a nursery later, to let him choose his own plants. These particular bushes were all heirloom roses, classics like lavender lassies and a couple of varieties of polyanthas.

Margot had them all planted long before Alfred returned. In fact, she started to worry when it began to grow dark and he still hadn't come back. She was on her way back towards the manor when she saw one of the cars suddenly leave the garage and speed towards the main road.

Frowning, she hurried inside, only to find Bruce sitting alone in the study.

"When did you get back?" she asked in surprise. "Where's Alfred?"

The boy's eyebrows knit together with worry. "He's not here?"

She shook her head.

Bruce tried not to seem too concerned as he murmured, "He's probably out looking for me."

"You didn't come home with him? Who left just now?"

"Selina," Bruce explained distractedly. "I'm sure Alfred's fine. I'll call him now."

She nodded, watching as he fumbled for his phone. A thought suddenly struck her. "Wait, Selina took one of the cars? She's what, fourteen?"

Bruce hushed her as he dialed and waited, his face growing increasingly troubled as the seconds passed and Alfred didn't answer. Frowning, Bruce tried again, only to be sent to voicemail a second time.

"He's not answering," he said quietly.

Margot started to feel nervous. If Alfred was out looking for Bruce, he should have answered the boy's calls. Something was wrong.

"I'm going to look for him," she told Bruce.

He stood. "I'll come too."

"No," she said with a shake of her head. "Stay here in case he returns."

Bruce nodded, sitting reluctantly. "All right."

"Call me if he comes back."

With that, Margot left, making her way straight towards her bike. She'd just straddled it and was about to slide her helmet on when she heard the sound of a soft footstep scuff the pavement. Whirling around, she saw a dark figure that lunged at her with surprising speed.

Margot leapt from her bike and tumbled over the ground, getting quickly to her feet and facing the figure. Except there were two of them now, both of them brandishing knives at her. They wore strange dark robes with cowls that masked their faces.

The robes should have hindered them, made them easier to fight off, but they were quick, quicker than her. One of them seemed to notice that she favored her leg as she dodged their attacks, and he suddenly lashed out with a swift kick that struck her directly in the knee. She crumpled to the ground with a cry, holding her leg.

A knife flashed in the dim yellow light from the lamps, and she raised her arm to defend herself, feeling steel bite into her arm. Another blow struck her in the ribs, and she felt the air go out of her. She folded in on herself, gasping, feeling blood on her fingers as she held her side. She'd been stabbed.

God, Bruce was inside.

Struggling to rise, Margot pulled herself up, putting herself between the two figures and the doorway. One lunged at her, and she dodged, grabbing his robe as he passed and using his momentum to fling him into the shrubbery. Light exploded in her vision as she moved, and she staggered for a moment, blinded by the agony in her side. The other figure lashed out, his knife coming towards her. She barely managed to avoid the blow, catching him by the wrist and twisting. The knife fell from his hand and she kicked it away before he freed himself. She kept herself between the man and the door, her eyes not leaving him.

She heard a sudden rustle in the shrubbery, and before she could turn, something hard connected with the back of her head.

Margot fell to the ground, her vision swimming as the figures stepped over her and entered the house, followed by a third man, wearing particularly expensive shoes.

"Troublesome little bitch," said the man as everything slowly went dark.

* * *

 _Well, it would seem that we've pretty much caught up with the first half of Season Two. Hope you've enjoyed it so far!_


	28. Chapter Twenty-Seven

_A/N: Well, it certainly has been a while! Here is a short update. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy this...whatever it is. As always, feedback is appreciated! ;)_

* * *

 _"The pain of it all,  
The rise and the fall,  
I see it all in you.  
Now every day  
I find myself sayin',  
I want to get lost in you—  
I'm nothing without you.  
…Let me get close to you."_

 _"Lost in You" –Three Days Grace_

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Seven:

Margot slowly blinked her eyes open, her head heavy as if somebody had filled it with lead, her eyes aching under the bright white light. She tried to sit up and felt a stab of pain shoot through her ribs. A groan escaped her throat.

"Margot!" a soft exclamation drew her out of her groggy state.

"Bruce," she mumbled weakly, glancing to her left and seeing that the boy was indeed sitting nearby. Alfred was at his side, of course, looking weary and pale, fast asleep and snoring softly. She recalled the events at the manor, the men that had attacked her, and a wave of relief washed over her to see that both Bruce and Alfred were safe. "What happened?"

"Everything's fine," the boy reassured her, glancing at his butler and nudging the man. "Alfred."

The man started awake with a snort. "What?" Blinking, he glanced first at Bruce and then at Margot. "God," he breathed, "you're awake."

She noticed how ruffled he looked, the burn marks on his face, the way he seemed to favor his side as he moved. Bruce also looked a little worse for wear. "What happened to you two?" she asked wearily.

Alfred and Bruce exchanged a look before answering simultaneously.

"You don't want to know."

"We'll tell you later."

Alfred continued, "You should rest. Believe me, you'll want out of here as quickly as possible."

Bruce glanced at the man. "Only because you don't want to stay."

"The doctors keep looking at me like a bloody piece of meat," Alfred responded darkly.

"They just want to have a look at your side," the boy explained patiently.

"My side is fine," the butler retorted, indicating Margot with a nod as he added, "She's the patient."

"I'm fine," she replied, adding with a groan, "Everything hurts, but I'm fine."

"Master Bruce," suggested Alfred, "why don't you go fetch the nurse?"

Bruce nodded and rose.

As soon as he was gone, Alfred moved nearer, his expression growing serious. "Margot, there's something I need to discuss with you." She nodded and listened quietly as he continued, "Those men that attacked you took Bruce. They almost killed him."

"I tried to stop them, but…" Margot trailed off hopelessly, staring down at her hands, which clenched the bedsheets tightly. "I'm so sorry, Alfred," she whispered.

He reached for her, slipped one of his large, worn hands over hers. "Margot," he murmured, drawing her gaze back up to meet his. "I don't blame you," he reassured her. "But it's not safe for Bruce to remain in the city right now." Alfred's brow furrowed, and he seemed to struggle with what he was going to say next.

"You have to leave," Margot realized aloud.

The man looked up and nodded reluctantly. "I'd rather not leave you here, but—"

She squeezed his hand gently in hers. "I know, Alfred. I've always known. Bruce comes first. I get it."

"Do you?"

It required more effort than she thought, but she raised her hand to touch his face, forcing a smile. "I'll be fine here with my Jell-O and ice chips." A bit of movement caught her eye, and she glanced aside just in time to see Bruce return with the nurse.

"Oh, thank God," she groaned.

The nurse's brow rose. "Looks like you're all ready for your next morphine dose, Ms. Vallant."

"More than."

She watched quietly as the nurse administered the painkiller, then settled back into the pillows of her hospital bed. Once the nurse left, Alfred turned back to Margot and informed her, "I've contacted a couple of mates. They said they'd be willing to look in on you."

She scoffed, already feeling the morphine begin its work of numbing the stabbing ache in her ribs. "I don't want your 'mates' seeing me like this—or anyone, for that matter. Besides, it'll do me good to have some time alone."

"I don't see why we have to leave anyway," Bruce interjected.

"We already discussed this, didn't we, Master B?" Alfred replied in a warning tone, his smile forced as he glanced at the boy. "In fact," he checked his watch, absently running his thumb over its face, "we ought to be on our way."

The young man grimaced, but didn't protest further.

"And as for you," said Alfred gruffly, turning to Margot, "I'll call you. I want to know that you're not causing trouble here while we're away."

She smiled wanly, starting to feel quite drowsy. "Right. Like you can stop me."

"Margot…" he whispered, glancing back hesitantly at Bruce. She could tell he was a little wary about showing affection towards her in the boy's company. After a moment, he leaned over her, brushing her hair back and pressing a kiss to her brow. "Be safe," he told her. "Get well."

Margot nodded as she started to float away into a dreamlike trance of painkillers and exhaustion.

They bid her a quiet goodbye, Alfred giving her hand one last squeeze before he put his arm around Bruce's shoulders and led the young man away. Margot watched silently as they left, surprised by the sudden ache she felt in her chest, an ache that morphine couldn't help.

She hadn't realized how attached she'd become, how dreary the thought of being alone suddenly seemed. She only hoped that they wouldn't be gone for long.

* * *

Margot spent the next two and a half weeks in the hospital, starting to become convinced that the slow, steady beeping of the monitors was a subtle and insidious form of torture. She still hurt quite a bit during the few minutes between doses when she'd briefly come out of her drug-induced fog, but mostly it was boredom that made her feel as if she was slowly going mad.

She slept, ate the same under-salted food three times a day, and passed her time watching old Mexican telenovelas. The days began to blend together. The only high point was when Alfred called her twice a week to check in. Always on Tuesday and Saturday, around midday for her, late evening for him. He was the only reason she was aware of time at all, trapped in the small windowless box of her hospital room.

Today was Saturday.

Her eyes flickered up to the clock above the door for the third time. 1:12. Her phone usually rang a few seconds past 1:13. Margot already knew exactly what she would say this time, too, hoping that it would wring a laugh from the man. Alfred's laughs were rare enough already, but lately it seemed as if they were on the brink of extinction.

He didn't like being away from home any more than Bruce did, despite the fact that he was the one insisting that they leave town. If it was for the boy's safety, he'd do it, but Margot could tell he missed the manor with all its familiarity and routine. She heard it in his voice every time they spoke, that longing, that reluctance to hang up, despite the fact that their conversations never lasted more than three or four minutes.

A few short, perfect minutes.

Margot's phone buzzed, startling her out of her thoughts.

Like clockwork, she thought to herself.

She picked the phone up and answered in a low, sultry voice, "Hey there, stud. What are you wearing?"

"You're hilarious."

Margot could practically hear the raised eyebrow in his dry, unamused tone.

"How's Switzerland? You're not going to come back with a six-foot-tall blonde supermodel named Greta, are you?"

"As if Greta, the six-foot-tall blonde supermodel, would be interested in me," Alfred retorted gruffly.

Margot smiled unconsciously as she listened to the familiar cadence of his voice. "You never know," she replied. "I find you strangely attractive, after all."

"It's good to know they still have you on drugs."

"Alfred, was that a joke?"

"No."

She laughed softly. "God, I miss you."

The man was quiet for a moment before he asked in a gentler voice, "How are you?"

Margot shrugged, despite the fact that he couldn't see her. "I'm fine. The doctor says I'll be out of here in a couple of days if I'm good and don't let my friends from the VA sneak me any more hot wings."

He sighed on the other end of the line. "You see? This is why I had reservations about leaving you alone. Are you sure I shouldn't send someone to look in on you?"

"I'm sure," she reassured him. "I get visitors. Remember that veteran I met here the other day? The paraplegic I told you about? We got to talking, and it turns out he knows a couple of people down at the VA office who served with me before I was deployed. They visited two days ago."

"And brought you hot wings."

"Yes."

Another sigh.

"How's Bruce?" she inquired.

"Restless."

Margot didn't voice the question they both knew she wanted to ask.

Alfred answered it anyway. "We'll be returning soon," he told her.

"Yeah?" she inquired hopefully. Spending time alone in the hospital was bad enough. Spending time alone at the manor—she wasn't sure she could take it.

"Give us another week or so. Will you be all right on your own until then?"

She scoffed, "Quit worrying. I'll be fine." A pause and then, "You didn't leave any milk in the fridge, did you?"

"No."

"Good. Spoiled milk grosses me the hell out."

A soft laugh escaped him. "Margot."

"What?"

"Take care of yourself."

"I will."

He was silent for a moment, and Margot had to check to make sure the call hadn't been dropped. Then he murmured, "I miss you."

"Me too," she whispered.

"I'll talk to you again soon."

"Yeah."

Margot lowered her phone, holding it to her chest as she leaned back and closed her eyes. Two and a half weeks and it was the first time he'd said it. He missed her. It caught her off-guard. She'd assumed, of course, that he did, but actually hearing it…well, honestly, it only made her miss him more.


	29. Chapter Twenty-Eight

_Just a little quickie for all of you. ;) Enjoy the fluff while it lasts._

* * *

 _"I think I've walked too close to love  
And now I'm falling in.  
There's so many things this weary soul can't take.  
_ _There's a life inside of me  
_ _That I can feel again.  
_ _I don't care if I lost everything that I have known.  
_ _It don't matter where I lay my head tonight:  
_ _Your arms feel like home."_

 _"Your Arms Feel Like Home" –3 Doors Down_

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Eight:

Margot took a taxi back to Wayne Manor the day they discharged her from the hospital. It was a long and jarring drive home, and the day felt bleak, despite the warm sun casting patterns through the trees and onto the sprawling green lawns.

The manor was empty, and it felt like it. Every sound she made echoed through the corridors, and the air was dead and still, as if it hadn't been disturbed in years, despite the fact that it had only been less than a month.

Margot didn't like how alone and small she felt, so she closed herself off in her room with a pile of books she'd stolen from the hospital library. She intended to return them eventually.

It was strange and unnerving to have time to read again. She wanted to be outside, taking care of the grounds, which were quite neglected, but she didn't want to strain herself, pop her stitches, and bleed to death out on the lawn. That would be a traumatizing welcoming scene for Bruce to come home to.

So she was careful, only leaving her room to go to the bathroom and answer the door for the pizza delivery boy. She wondered if it was possible for her to go insane after spending so much time indoors with nothing but pizza for sustenance.

Fortunately, it was only a couple of days before Alfred called. He and Bruce were on their way home.

"Don't do anything to prepare for us," he warned her. "I want you resting when we return."

"Alfred, what makes you think I'd do anything stupid for your sake?" she retorted. "I've been good. I'm resting."

He was suspiciously silent.

Margot sighed and added, "I'll be fine. Just come home safely."

"Right. See you soon."

She heard the click on the other end of the line and sighed. Alfred knew her too well. She was going to do something stupid for their sake.

The next day, despite the man's warning, Margot woke up early and limped her way down to the shed for her pruning shears. She spent the morning mowing the lawns and trying to trim the unruliest shrubbery, including the rose garden. She still didn't know if Alfred had seen the rosebushes yet. He'd disappeared the afternoon after she'd planted them, and they hadn't really come up in conversation while she'd been in the hospital.

They were a little dry and neglected, but it had rained enough to keep them in fairly good health. With a bit of trimming, they'd look passably pretty. That is, if she could finish before Bruce and Alfred returned. It was slow going, since she had to stop and sit every few minutes because of the ache in her ribs.

She was taking one such break under the shade of a nearby tree when she heard a car pull up in the near distance. Popping up, Margot hurried towards the house, moving as quickly as she dared. There, parked by the front door, she saw the familiar black town car, and her heart leapt into her throat as she caught sight of Alfred coming around the back to remove the luggage.

She didn't care about the pain or risk of injury any longer. She ran flat out for the car, her feet pounding over the pavement. Alfred hardly had time to turn around before she stumbled into him, holding him tightly and burying her face in his neck.

"I missed you," she told him in a muffled voice, inhaling deeply, letting his smell—cologne, perspiration, soap, all with a strange overtone of airplane—saturate every breath.

Surprised for a moment, Alfred returned the embrace, about to reply when something suddenly stabbed him painfully in the gut. "Oi!" he exclaimed, backing up a little. "Watch it with the shears."

Margot glanced down, remembering that she'd tucked them in her belt for safekeeping. "Sorry," she apologized with a sheepish laugh. She suddenly noticed Bruce watching them calmly from across the top of the car. "Bruce," she greeted him with a smile. "How are you?"

He inclined his head. "I'm doing well." A small crease furrowed his brow and he added with a hint of concern, "Should you be up right now? I was informed you were on bedrest."

"I'm fine." She tried to shrug it off and winced when her wound protested. She hastily pressed her palm to the injury. "I'm fine," she repeated, though she was beginning to regret running.

"Let's get you inside," Alfred suggested as he reached for her and led her into the house.

"Sorry to be a burden on your first day back," she whispered apologetically.

"Don't apologize," he responded firmly. "We both know the reason you were hurt in the first place."

She smiled wanly. Protecting Bruce. "I'd better get a raise for this," she joked.

"I have something better in mind," the man replied.

Before she could inquire further, however, Bruce came running up from behind, accompanied by the all-too-familiar scent of pizza. "We brought pizza back," he said, slightly breathless, as if he'd run all the way from the car. "If you're hungry." He held up two boxes of pizza hopefully.

Margot stifled a groan and forced a smile. "Famished," she answered, her smile growing when she saw the pleased expression on the young man's face.

They gathered in the study to eat, Margot stretched out on the sofa, Alfred and Bruce ensconced in the deep chairs across from her. She closed her eyes and smiled, relieved to be out of the hospital, chewing on a slice of lukewarm pizza, listening as Alfred and Bruce bickered softly about whether or not pizza sauce counted as a vegetable.

It seemed so ordinary, banal even, but she couldn't think of a better way to pass her afternoon. The manor had been too quiet without them.

"Margot," Bruce's voice called her out of her musings.

"What?"

"We noticed the new roses you planted. They look nice, don't they, Alfred?"

Alfred smiled at the boy and nodded. "They do," he told Margot.

"So you like them?" she inquired hopefully. "I could show them to you later, if you'd like."

"Yes," he assured her. "I would like that."

"Good."

* * *

That evening, Alfred stopped by Margot's room, just to check on her. She noticed that he'd undressed, wearing just his trousers, his shirt half-unbuttoned and his braces hanging like stirrups at his waist.

She closed the book she had been reading and smiled.

"I'm not disturbing you, am I?" he asked.

"Yes, Alfred, I'm very disturbed," she replied dryly, adding with a grin, "But it's not your fault."

He smiled wanly, not very amused by her attempt at a joke. "Mind if I join you?"

"Not at all." She shifted with a bit of a wince and patted the mattress invitingly.

Alfred approached and sat down, reclining beside her, his head resting against the headboard. Margot adjusted and curled up against him. He noticed the book in her hand and inquired curiously, "What's this?"

She shrugged. "Some trashy novel I picked up while I was in the hospital. Derek—" she opened the book and turned a page "—is about to take Ramona up to the lighthouse to make love to her. What he doesn't know is that she's his ex-wife's long lost stepsister, and she's already two months pregnant with his cousin's baby."

Alfred glanced down at her with a skeptical look. "I see," he murmured dubiously.

"Don't judge," she told him sternly, setting the book aside. "You're the one that left me here on my own. I had to find some sort of entertainment."

"Margot—" he began.

"Shh," she interrupted, holding a finger over his lips. "I'm not mad. I told you before, I understand. But that doesn't give you the right to poke fun at my reading material."

Alfred's eyes softened a little, and he smiled. He took her hand in his and pressed a kiss to her fingertips.

She smiled back, letting her gaze wander over his face, as if she were seeing him for the first time. The man shifted uncomfortably under her stare.

"What?" he inquired nervously.

"I've missed you," she whispered, not averting her gaze. "It's funny, but I actually started to forget things while you were away."

"Like what?"

"Tiny details." Margot reached up to touch his face. "The squinty lines around your eyes. The shape of your mouth." She smirked and added teasingly, "Your name."

Alfred snorted. "My name."

"Yes. It's Jerry, isn't it? No. Bob!"

"Quit arsing about, will you?" he retorted, though it was obvious he was trying to hide his amusement.

"I'm not!" she insisted. "It's true, Phil!"

"Oh, so you're letting strangers into your bed now, is that it?"

"You're definitely not a stranger. I simply might have forgotten your name." Margot pressed herself into his loose embrace and added, "Like I said, tiny details. Not important." She traced her finger over his lips, which parted slightly, invitingly, and then she kissed him.

It had certainly been a long time since she'd done that.

"Right," he replied after a moment. "So if names aren't important, what is?"

Margot kissed him again, remembering how much she liked his mouth, especially when it was mashed up against hers. "The way you taste," she whispered against his lips. "The way you smell."

Alfred chuckled softly as she buried her face in the crook of his neck.

"That laugh," she added with a smile.

"Margot, luv," he murmured, holding her tightly in his arms. "You've been sorely missed."

She settled into him, resting her head on his chest. "How were things?" she asked, absently picking at a button on his shirt.

He ran a hand up and down her arm as he considered the question. "Honestly? Boring, really. And Bruce…well, he's been quite churlish lately."

"Churlish," Margot echoed softly. "Good word." She propped herself up and considered the man thoughtfully. "How so?"

He shrugged. "The boy's been keeping secrets."

"Oh. And we both know you don't like secrets."

Alfred frowned, his voice a little heated as he replied, "No. No, I really don't."

"What kind of secrets?" Margot inquired.

He sighed heavily. "He has the name of the man who killed his parents."

She sat up abruptly. "What? How?"

Shaking his head, Alfred answered, "He enlisted Miss Kyle's help. They got the information out of Miss St. Cloud."

Margot couldn't help but be slightly impressed.

It must have shown on her face, because Alfred scowled and added, "He shouldn't have done it."

"Obviously," she agreed. "But he did. So now what?"

He let out a low growl, his mouth just a flat line of displeasure. "Well… I've got to help him now, don't I."

"Do you?"

"Yes, because if I don't, he'll go off on his bloody tod and try to find the man himself." Another sigh escaped him. "He won't stop."

"Do you think he'll try to kill the guy?"

Alfred leveled a flat look at her. "I know he will." The lines on his brow creased deeper as he added, "It's dangerous and foolish, and I've told him as much, but it's not as if he listens anymore."

Margot couldn't hide a scoff. Feeling the weight of the man's glare on her, she explained, "He's thirteen years old. What do you expect?"

"I don't know." He shook his head, drawing a hand down his face. He seemed exhausted. "Sometimes I wish I could throttle that boy," he admitted darkly.

"Let's maybe not share that out loud," she teased, smiling up at him.

The man looked at her and suddenly let out a wry laugh. "God, Margot, I've missed you."

She let him pull her into a long, searching kiss. Parting reluctantly, he cupped the side of her face in a palm and asked quietly, "How are you, anyway?"

"Happy to be here. Happy to have you back."

"And your wound?"

She glanced down, felt the dull, persistent ache, and shrugged. "It's fine." Running a hand down his front, she added suggestively, "In fact, I'm doing well enough for a quick one if you're interested."

"That isn't why I asked."

"I know. It's just another one of those tiny-but-important details."

Alfred chuckled, but he sat up and gently fended her off. "I am tempted," he admitted. "But don't you think it's a bit early? I don't want to break you while you're still fragile."

"Fragile my as—"

He cut her off with a quick, friendly kiss and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. "I should go. Can I fetch you anything?"

Margot shook her head. "Nah. I'll be all right until morning." She frowned slightly. "Although, now that I think about it, breakfast in bed might be nice."

"Right," Alfred replied drolly. "We offer a wide variety of amenities, including room service, here at the bloody Wayne hotel."

Margot let out a loud laugh and retorted, "Fine, you crusty old turd."

"Oi! You just kissed this crusty old turd." He grabbed her with the intention of kissing her again.

"No! Oh, gross, stop—" she protested, not trying very hard to push him away.

They both fell into each other, laughing.

Margot hadn't laughed like that in a long time. It was surprisingly painful. She winced and pulled away, holding a hand to her ribs.

"Are you sure you're all right?" Alfred asked with concern.

She nodded and waved him off. "Yeah. Fine. It's just a bit sore."

He hesitated doubtfully before nodding as well. "Very well, then. In that case…" he rose with a soft groan "…I'd better be off. Long day and all."

Margot watched him cross the room, calling after him, "Goodnight, Alfred."

He turned back and smiled tiredly. "Goodnight, Margot." He retreated a bit more and then added, "I'll see you in the morning."

She felt a flutter in her stomach, knowing that her long month away from Bruce and Alfred had finally ended. And even though she would have preferred that Alfred didn't leave that evening, it was probably for the best. The wound in her ribs was still tender; the last thing she needed was another body in bed with her, with elbows and knees and other angles that could accidentally bump her.

Still, she hated the feeling of being alone.

She curled up in the middle of the bed and dragged her book towards her, reading for a while before she closed her eyes, clutched a pillow in her arms, and fell asleep.


	30. Chapter Twenty-Nine

_Still part of episode 2.13. I loved last night's episode_ — _lots of material there for the next chapter or two. For now, here's this..._

* * *

 _"Here comes the rain again,  
Falling from the stars,  
Drenched in my pain again,  
Becoming who we are."_

 _"Wake Me Up When September Ends" –Green Day_

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Nine:

Margot woke with a start, her heart pounding in her throat, her clothes drenched in sweat. She was shaking. The worst part was, she didn't know why she was so distressed.

Leftovers of a bad dream, probably.

They happened sometimes, the nightmares. Usually she didn't remember them in the morning, and the panic soon faded. But for a few minutes while she was still trying to wake up, she felt the suffocating terror and crippling anxiety of not knowing where she was or what she was supposed to do. She only knew that she was in imminent, life-threatening danger.

That wasn't ever true—it was just a byproduct of the nightmares—but it felt real.

That morning was no different. After a few moments, Margot oriented herself. She wasn't overseas. This was Wayne Manor, her room, her bed. She was alone and safe.

And yet, a quick glance at the bedside table proved that she hadn't been entirely alone that morning.

Breakfast. It was waiting for her on a tray: muesli with fresh fruit and cream, buttered toast on the side, and a glass of orange juice that was still cold. If asked, Alfred would probably brush it off and tell her that it was simple to throw together, practically nothing. But for Margot… Well, she'd lived for years off of nothing more than cold cereal for breakfast.

In Alfred and Bruce's absence, she'd forgotten the butler's interest in the culinary arts. Now she realized how much she'd missed it. The meal even came with a small vase of flowers from the garden.

She touched one of the bright orange nasturtium blossoms with a fingertip and smiled.

Her eyes flickered to a small, folded card tucked carefully under the vase. She opened it and read:

 _Breakfast in bed, as requested. I didn't wish to wake you._

Checking the time, Margot felt a little jolt of alarm and hastily ate before she took a quick shower. She had plans for the grounds today, and she wasn't going to let her injury prevent her from completing them. If she was careful and took her time, she didn't see why she couldn't return to work.

Unfortunately for her plans, Alfred had the peculiar talent of being in the right place at the right time, or rather, the wrong place at the wrong time, depending on perspective.

Margot was in the kitchen, washing the dishes from breakfast, when he entered quietly.

"Good morning," he greeted her.

She jumped slightly, startled. "Morning," she replied. Glancing over her shoulder at him, she added, "Thank you for breakfast."

"Of course. You are on bedrest, after all."

She felt his eyes on her, looking over her wardrobe, landing on her mud-crusted work boots with accusing weight. Margot sighed and shut off the water, turning to face the man. "I'm fine," she insisted. "I need to see to the grounds. They've been neglected long enough."

He took her gently by the shoulders, his grip soft, but his expression hard and stern. "And what do you think the grounds will look like if you keel over and bleed to death? I don't need the hassle of finding another gardener."

"I'm tired of resting," she responded with a scowl.

"And I of all people understand that," he replied. "But we need you in good health, Margot, and that's not going to happen if you try to rush your recovery."

"You're one to talk," she muttered darkly, recalling his own rushed recovery.

He ignored her, insisting firmly, "Go on. Off to bed with you."

Margot resisted. "Alfred—"

"I'll throw you over my shoulder and carry you there if I have to," he interrupted warningly.

"You wouldn't."

His brow rose, and he stepped closer, grabbing her by the waist. She hastily skipped back before he could lift her.

"All right, you big bully. I'm going."

"Good," he said simply. As she reluctantly retreated, he called after her, "I'm going into the city. Can I fetch you anything?"

Margot turned to him and saw the look in his eyes. He wasn't really asking her if she needed anything. He was asking if he could trust her on her own.

"I've managed perfectly fine on my own so far, haven't I?" she answered coolly.

"Right. Well then, I expect the grounds to look just as neglected when I return. Now off you pop."

Growling with displeasure, Margot turned and left.

* * *

Alfred seemed tired and troubled when he came to see Margot that evening. She could tell by the look on his face that it was Bruce. She wasn't sure how she knew; she just knew.

"What is it?" she asked as he entered her room. "What's wrong?"

The man shook his head quietly and sat on the edge of her bed. "How are you?"

"Am I going to have to answer that question every time I see you now?" she snapped irritably. "I'm fucking _fine_. It's fine. I wish you'd stop asking."

She immediately regretted her words and, more importantly, her tone. To see the hurt expression on Alfred's face, it was almost as if she had slapped him.

"Alfred, I didn't mean—" she began in an apologetic whisper.

He raised a hand to silence her. "No," he murmured tiredly. "As you said, it's fine."

"Look," sighed Margot, "I'm just fed up with lying around all day, being a burden." She reached for his hand and held it in hers, though he remained unresponsive. "I want to help. That's all. Please." She squeezed his hand imploringly.

Alfred glanced up at her. "Margot, you're not well—"

"Why are you suddenly all eggshells and fine china around me?"

"Because you're still fragile!" he insisted.

Margot was tired of circling around the same argument and getting nowhere. There was something else behind it all, something that he wasn't telling her. "Alfred, what is this really about?"

His face fell and he let out a long, unsteady breath. Finally, exhaustedly, he replied, "We almost lost you."

She bit her tongue before she could retort sarcastically and paid more attention to the way he was looking at her, the sadness in his expression. The fear. With that, she suddenly realized the reason for his concern, the heavy-handed insistence that she take care of herself. He was afraid of losing her. They'd never really talked about it, about what had happened to her, about what was happening between them. It was confusing, and frankly overwhelming, which was why they'd both tried to skirt around the issue.

Until now.

"I know," she sighed after a moment.

"I'm only concerned for your safety," he replied quietly. "I can protect the boy. I can't protect you."

"I don't need protection," she told him, ignoring the pointed way he looked at her. "We don't really have the luxury of being safe, do we? Not when we have to protect Bruce."

"No," Alfred admitted. "I suppose we don't."

"I've been giving it a lot of thought," Margot continued. "Those men had the drop on me, and they shouldn't have." Shaking her head, she growled, "I hate excuses, but it's this damn leg. I'm just not as fast as I used to be."

"Have you done that exercise I showed you?"

Margot fell quiet. "No." She'd almost forgotten the painful experience when Alfred had bent her leg farther than she'd ever thought it would bend again.

"Perhaps it's time. You're not a gardener anymore, Margot."

"You're right," she agreed. Pausing, she hesitantly added, "And I've been thinking that maybe I ought to start carrying a handgun."

He sat back a little, regarding her thoughtfully, his brow furrowed and his lips pursed. She was surprised that he didn't immediately refute the idea. In fact, he gave it a quite a bit of consideration.

"I could've dropped them easily," she pointed out. "I could've protected Bruce better. I know it's not the most comforting thought, but maybe it's a good idea."

"A dangerous idea," he muttered.

"I know how to handle a gun," Margot replied a little defensively.

"I know that," Alfred reassured her. "But say some bloody berk got his hands on your gun and shot you."

"And if they had a gun and I didn't?"

"Margot, I don't want guns in the house."

"What about my rifle?" she pointed out. "And I know you have a gun—"

"No!" he interrupted with surprising force.

Margot fell silent, watching the man resentfully.

"Look, I'll think about it," he continued after a brief silence, his voice softening. "For now, you work on that leg." He glanced down at the limb in question and ran a hand over her knee and up her thigh.

She closed her eyes. After a moment, he leaned nearer, tentatively pulling her into a kiss. She let him. Kissing was far better than arguing.

"I never would have expected this job to be so dangerous," she commented as they parted. "If you'd told me my first day that we'd be having this conversation… Well, I'm not sure I would have taken the job."

He chuckled softly. "You're not going to try to quit again, are you?"

Margot met his gaze. "I tried that once," she told him. "I think it's a little late now, wouldn't you say?"

Alfred nodded. "Just a bit." He leaned in to kiss her again.

"You know what else it's too late for?" she whispered against his lips.

"What?"

She twined her arms tightly around his neck, tangling her legs with his. "For you to leave."

"Margot—" he protested weakly.

"Don't you dare tell me I'm too fragile," she interrupted, running her fingers through his hair, scraping her teeth over his earlobe. "It's been a really long month, and I'm not waiting any longer."

Alfred hesitated only a moment before growling, "Bugger it. Come here, you."

* * *

Margot woke in the middle of the night, still shaking slightly from the hazy remnants of a bad dream. She rolled over, expecting to feel a warm body beside her, somebody to hold until she felt safe again.

But Alfred wasn't there.

Glancing at her clock, which read 2:36, Margot cursed and sat up. It was too early to be awake, even for Alfred. Perhaps he'd returned to his own room to sleep. Or maybe he'd just gone to the bathroom. Whatever the reason, he was gone, and Margot was wide awake at 2:37 in the morning with a pounding headache.

She sighed, pulled on her skivvies and a shirt, and padded down to the kitchen for a drink to soothe her nerves and numb her head. As she approached, she saw light coming through the kitchen doorway. It seemed she wasn't the only one in need of a drink.

Alfred was at the table already, a drink in hand. He glanced up as she entered, mildly surprised to see her standing in the doorway.

"What are you doing up and about at this hour?"

"Wondering why you're here at this time of night," she replied, grabbing a glass from the cupboard and sitting down across the table from him. She pushed the glass towards him, and he dutifully filled it.

He was quiet for a bit, before he admitted, "I couldn't sleep."

She saw a familiar haunted look in his eyes. "Nightmare?" she asked.

He stared down at his glass. "You get them too," he noted. "The nightmares."

Margot nodded. "All the time." She grimaced and added wryly, "I guess our mental health was a small price to pay to keep people safe, right?"

Alfred scoffed. "Sometimes I wonder if that's what we were doing."

Looking at him curiously, Margot reached across the table and touched his hand with concern. "Is it anything you want to talk about?"

"No," he said with a shake of his head. "Best just to let it be."

She knew how he felt. It was hard to forget her time as a soldier, harder still to relive the memories over and over again. Some of the memories were pleasant—proud moments like receiving her eagle, globe, and anchor after boot camp; graduating sniper training; even receiving her purple heart for wounds sustained during her service.

But those didn't wake her in the middle of the night.

It was the other memories that haunted her.

She could feel them pressing in on her as she sat in silence, and with a glance at Alfred, she saw the troubled expression on his face and knew that his demons were there too.

Finally, she couldn't stand it, and she opened her mouth to say something, not quite sure what would come out.

"You know," she whispered hoarsely, "there were villages where we didn't know who was good and who wasn't. Some of our men used to place ammunition or bomb parts in the street, and they'd leave us—the snipers—to watch it. Anybody who touched the bait got a bullet in the head. That's how we weeded out insurgents."

Margot turned her glass in her hand, staring fixedly at it. She lifted it shakily and took a long drink, well aware that Alfred was watching her quietly. She avoided his gaze.

Shrugging, she continued in a dead voice, "It didn't bother me. Not at first. This one time, though…" She paused, having to clear her throat. "This one time, a fourteen-year-old girl walked right up to an empty M4. She picked it up without even thinking about it. Like a toy." Margot shuddered. "I still see her. Almost every night."

Alfred, still watching in solemn silence, took her glass and poured her a couple more fingers of scotch.

Then, as if she was tired of being serious, Margot scoffed, "I call her 'Lolita the señorita'."

The man frowned slightly, a little put off by her callousness. "You named her?"

She glared up defensively. "Everybody did it. The more ridiculous a nickname, the better. Laughing them off…it kept us sane."

His eyes met hers, searching her face. "And does it work, the laughing?"

"No," said Margot. "Not even a little."

They were silent for another few moments. Finally, she downed the rest of her drink in one gulp and slowly got to her feet.

"Off to bed then?" Alfred inquired.

"Yeah. You coming?"

He looked down at his glass, murmuring softly, "I'll be up in a bit."

Margot nodded and padded back up to her room, where she crawled into bed and wrapped herself tightly in the sheets. She closed her eyes, but she still saw the faces. The girl was just one of many.

After a while, she noticed the shadow in the doorway, heard soft footsteps cross the room, felt the mattress adjust as Alfred joined her. She told herself she was all right as she turned to the man, pressing herself into his embrace. But as soon as his arms closed around her, she came apart.

He held her quietly, unmoving like stone, while she wept.

Eventually, the tears stopped and the trembling subsided. "I'm sorry," she whispered in a voice that was hardly more than a breath. "God, I'm such a mess. I should have warned you I was insane."

A soft, sad laugh escaped the man. "No. You're not insane," he reassured her.

"Just seriously fucked up."

He traced a finger down her collarbone, letting it rest between her breasts. "Some scars can't be seen," he murmured. "And instead of healing, they eat you up from the inside."

Margot looked up at him, unable to see much in the darkness. "What do you do about yours?"

Alfred sighed. "I bandage them up very tightly and try not to look too closely."

"Sounds like a mental break waiting to happen."

"You'd be surprised how much it helps to have responsibilities, people to care for," he noted.

"Bruce," she whispered.

"Yes. That boy saved me."

Margot nodded slowly. "He's a good kid." A faint smile crossed her face and she added teasingly, "You're lucky to have him."

She could feel his smile as he pressed it to her brow. "I am," he agreed.

Lying there in Alfred's arms, Margot couldn't help but feel the same way. She was lucky to have Bruce. Lucky to have Alfred.

She didn't know what she would do without either of them.


	31. Chapter Thirty

_"You can slip in,  
Try to find me,  
Hold your breath, and  
Flat deny me.  
It makes no difference  
To my thinkin';  
I'll be here when  
You start sinkin'."_

 _"Snake Song" –Townes Van Zandt_

* * *

Chapter Thirty:

Alfred seemed troubled and distracted over the next few days. So did Bruce, for that matter. The two of them disappeared frequently to God knew where—the manor was large enough that Margot was sure there were parts of it she didn't know anything about, and she wasn't interested in exploring. She just wanted things to return to normal.

Unfortunately, it seemed they never would. Not since Bruce had learned the name of his parents' killer.

It was all he thought about, all he seemed to talk about too, though he didn't talk very much anymore. She could understand why, but she could also see the toll it was taking on him, which in turn took its toll on Alfred.

The man was a wreck, despite his best efforts to hide it. She saw the way he worried for Bruce, resigned to help the boy who was determined to confront the man who had taken his parents from him, because what else could he do? He'd told Margot about the promise he'd made to Bruce. That he would kill the man so that the boy didn't have to. He pretended that it didn't bother him, but she could tell it did.

His nightmares were getting worse. She hadn't noticed them much before, but now he had them every night, twisting and turning, jolting upright in a cold sweat. She did her best to comfort him, but what could she do when he wouldn't talk to her?

One night, the nightmares were particularly violent. He startled her awake with a shout, and for a moment she found herself reaching for the gun under her pillow, ready to shoot any enemies that had infiltrated the camp. It took her a moment to realize that there was no gun under her pillow, there were no enemies, and she was in a bed in a room, not on a cot in a tent.

"Alfred," she whispered as she reached for the man, intending to wrap her arms around him and calm him.

He rounded on her, and suddenly she found herself beneath him, struggling to pry his hands from around her throat.

"Alfred—" she croaked, pounding on his chest with a fist. " _Alfred_!"

The man started awake, dazed and disoriented for a moment before he stared down at her. A horrified expression slowly grew on his face. "Oh God," he gasped, letting go and staring at his hands as if he couldn't believe what he'd done. "Margot—"

She stopped him with a hand as she sat up. "What's wrong?" she asked quietly. "Nightmare?"

Alfred didn't meet her gaze. "Something like that." It was obvious he didn't want to talk about whatever it was that was troubling him. He never did.

Sighing, Margot reached towards him and squeezed his shoulders with her hands. They were hard and tense. "Come here," she whispered after a moment. "I'll give you a backrub."

"You really expect that to help?" His voice was doubtful, his expression dubious.

"Come here," she insisted.

Reluctantly, Alfred let Margot pull his undershirt over his head, groaning softly as she laid him down on his stomach and started to knead away the tension.

"Is it helping?" she asked.

"No," he responded in a muffled voice. He paused, then added, "Don't stop."

She smiled wanly and kept rubbing. When she was done, he rolled over and pulled her into his arms. He kissed her brow and thanked her, but she could tell that something was still troubling him. She resisted the urge to ask, knowing that he'd only deflect the question.

At least he was there with her and not off on his own.

That had to count for something.

* * *

"Where are you two off to?"

It was a harmless question, or at least Margot thought it was when she asked it the next day. Bruce and Alfred both jumped a little, though, slightly startled as they made their way down the corridor.

Exchanging a glance, they hesitated before Bruce finally answered, "We're going to find the man who killed my parents."

"You have a lead then?"

Alfred nodded. "One of his old mates works down on the East Side. Thought we'd start there."

"The East Side?" she inquired incredulously. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"You're not coming," he said before she even had a chance to offer.

"Right," she scoffed, "Like I'm letting the two of you go down there alone. I'm coming."

"That's exactly why we didn't tell you," the man retorted.

Margot crossed her arms and pointed out, "Which one of you knows Gotham's East Side better than I do? I was raised there."

"Margot—"

"If you tell me I'm still fragile, I swear to God I will—"

"Hey!" Bruce suddenly stepped between the two of them like some sort of small referee. Margot found it particularly fitting. As of late, it certainly had begun to feel as if she and Alfred were opponents instead of teammates.

In the quiet that followed, Alfred stared her down and calmly finished, "I was going to say that you have an appointment today. Your stitches."

 _Dammit_. He was right. Her stitches were due to be removed. She had an appointment at the hospital in just a couple of hours.

"We'll be fine," Alfred reassured her. "You know I can handle myself, and Master Bruce has given me his word that he'll follow my lead, hasn't he?" At this, he shot a pointed look at the boy.

Bruce only nodded grimly.

"And if you both turn up dead in the river?" she responded icily.

Alfred considered the idea briefly before quipping, "Then I suppose you're out of a job."

"That's not funny."

"Be that as it may, we're leaving. Shall I give you a lift to the hospital?"

She glowered at him, feeling particularly surly as she shot back, "I'll take my own damn self." And with that, she stalked away.

* * *

Margot sat impatiently in the waiting room, wondering how much longer it would be before the doctor saw to her stitches. She'd already waited for a half hour, and it was driving her mad. She kept thinking of Bruce and Alfred on their own on Gotham's East Side. She knew those neighborhoods all too well.

What the hell was Alfred thinking, taking Bruce there with him without any backup?

Her phone suddenly rang, startling Margot out of her thoughts.

It was Bruce.

"Hey," she answered.

The boy's voice was calm, but she thought she heard an undertone of distress as he explained, "Alfred's been hurt. We're at the hospital now."

"Dammit," Margot cursed, biting back the words "I told you so". Instead she asked, "Where are you now?"

She hung up as soon as Bruce gave her the room number and rushed from the waiting room and down the hospital hallways. She couldn't help but note how convenient it was that she had been there to have her stitches removed.

She found Alfred unconscious and Bruce standing at the man's bedside, staring thoughtfully down at the man.

"What happened?" she asked with concern, unable to ignore the cuts and the bruising on Alfred's face.

"He got into a fight," said Bruce simply.

"Will he be all right?"

"He'll be fine," the boy reassured her distractedly. "I'm sure Alfred will fill you in when he wakes up." He adjusted the collar of his coat and started to walk for the door.

"Hey!" Margot caught him by the arm. "Where do you think you're going?"

Bruce pulled himself loose, staring at her, his eyes dark and determined. He didn't answer her. He just left.

"Bruce!" Margot called after him, following him out into the hallway.

He glanced over his shoulder, saw her behind him, and quickened his pace. Soon he was running, and she was trying to keep up, dodging past doctors and nurses, trying not to knock over any patients that hobbled by.

The boy was surprisingly quick.

Margot almost had him when suddenly he grabbed a loose IV stand and pulled it out. She crashed into it, knocking it over and getting tangled in the IV line.

"Bruce!" she shouted, cursing as she tried to free herself.

A couple of nurses approached, attempting to help, getting in the way.

Margot shouted at them, pushed one of them away, and pretty soon security was there and Bruce had disappeared. It took all her willpower to calm down enough to convince the two security guards that they didn't need to escort her from the building. By then it was clear that Bruce was long gone, and the security guards insisted on accompanying her back to the room where Alfred lay unconscious.

Margot sat at his side, reaching for one of his limp hands and letting out a sigh of frustration. She felt as though she had no control over a situation that was steadily growing worse. There Alfred was, TKO from some fight she knew nothing about, while Bruce was running free on the streets of Gotham, intent on killing a man. How would she explain to Alfred that the boy had escaped her?

She soon found out.

She didn't know how long it had been, but she had begun to drift off when a hand closed around hers, and she looked up to meet Alfred's weary gaze.

"Are you all right?" she asked immediately.

"Fan-bloody-tastic," he responded dryly. His eyes darted around the room and he suddenly frowned. "Where's Bruce?"

Margot glanced away. "He left."

Alfred sat up sharply, wincing as he did so. "What?" he demanded loudly. "You let him leave?"

"He slipped away!" Margot retorted heatedly. "And I have no idea where he went, otherwise I would have followed him. So what the hell happened?"

Ignoring her, Alfred reached onto the bedside table and grabbed his phone.

"Detective Gordon," he greeted the man on the other end of the line. "A word, if you wouldn't mind… Yes, meet me at Gotham General… Don't ask." Hanging up, the man turned his attention back to Margot.

"You're calling the police?" she inquired skeptically. "You think they can stop Bruce?"

"I do," he responded. "Especially since I happen to know where he'll be."

"Damn it, Alfred!" Margot burst out. "Then tell me and I'll find him myself!"

"I'm not sending you," he retorted.

"Why the hell not?"

Alfred asked sharply, "If you find Bruce, what do you intend to do?"

"I'll stop him."

"How?"

"I'll drag him away if I have to."

"Margot," Alfred growled, "he's not going to rest until the man is dead. Now I promised to kill that man for Bruce. If you go, then you'll have to do it."

"I'll do it," she said flatly. "You know I can."

"And if the police catch you? What if they start to investigate you? You have a past, Margot. If they find out about your side projects, we'll never see you again. I want you well out of their scrutiny."

She sat back, trying to figure out how she felt about that. "So I'm incapable of defending Bruce now, is that it?" she growled.

"Well you certainly did a bang up job of it the last time," he noted sarcastically.

Margot had been wondering how long it would take for her knife wound to come up again. "There were three of them, Alfred! What happened to 'we're in this together'? What happened to protecting Bruce?"

Alfred sighed. "I called Detective Gordon. He'll take care of things."

She scoffed. "Right, because obviously the cops have done stellar work taking care of the Waynes before now."

"Oi!" he exclaimed angrily, pointing warningly at her. "Don't."

Margot let out a frustrated growl and stood. "I'm getting a drink," she announced, leaving without another word.

That was a lie. She didn't get a drink.

She left the hospital, Alfred's words still stinging. She was supposed to defend Bruce, but how did he expect her to do that if he kept shutting her out?

Then it dawned on her. Even after everything she had done, the butler still didn't trust her. Not enough, anyway.

Well, damn it, she was going to prove that she wasn't useless. Maybe Alfred wouldn't tell her where to find Bruce, but she knew of one source that could possibly have information on where to find the killer. If Alfred or Bruce had bothered to ask her, she might have shared her source with them.

But they hadn't asked her, so she was on her own.

It was a seedy little apartment building on the East Side, tucked away in a dark and forgotten neighborhood. She knew the way by heart. Margot had been there several times before, but that had been a long time ago. She didn't even know if he still lived there or if he would be home.

Reaching the door, she noticed the same old, worn welcome mat on the floor.

WELCOME—HOPE YOU BROUGHT BEER

Well, that was a hopeful sign.

Steeling herself, she pounded on the door with her fist. At first, there was no answer. Margot knocked again, heard nothing, and was about to turn away when the door cracked open.

She caught sight of one green eye peering at her through the crack. It widened with recognition, and the door started to close abruptly.

Margot shoved her foot in the doorway. "Wait!" she insisted, forcefully pushing the door open. "I need your help, Freddie."

The man stumbled back away from the door, shaking his head emphatically. Since she'd last seen him, his vibrant blue hair had faded to a dull aquamarine, and it hung limply in his eyes. "Oh, no. No, no, no," he told her with a nervous, high-pitched laugh. "We're not doing this again, Margie."

She ignored him as she stepped into the room, closing the door behind her. "I need to find someone."

"What makes you think I can help?" he inquired resentfully.

She backed him up against the wall, scoffing as she flipped a strand of his hair back. "If you want me out of your hair, you'll help."

Freddie eyed her warily before his gaze slipped away, his eyes darting furtively around the cluttered room.

"His name's Malone," Margot continued. "Goes by 'Matches'. Have you heard of him?"

The man shrugged noncommittally.

She slammed her fist onto the wall, just inches from his head. "Come on, Freddie! You know the name of every creep working the East Side. Have you heard of him or not?"

Flinching, Freddie nodded. "Yeah, all right, so maybe I have. What the hell is this about?"

"Where can I find him?"

"How would I know?" he retorted.

Grabbing him by the collar, she shouted, "You hear things! Tell me!"

"Margie—!" he protested.

She loosened her grip with a growl, and for a moment he seemed relieved.

At least until her knuckles connected with his face.

The man reeled and slumped down the side of the wall.

"Tell me!" she snarled, "Before I beat it out of you!"

He looked up at her, wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of one shaking hand. "I don't fucking know!" he spat back.

Margot thought it was the defiance in his expression that incensed her. Or maybe she just really felt the need to pummel somebody. Either way, soon Freddie was on his back, and she was straddling him, clenching his collar in one hand, driving her other fist into him with all the strength she could muster.

He didn't fight back, not even to defend himself. He simply cradled his head in his arms for protection as she punched him repeatedly.

"Tell me!"

"I don't know!" Freddie blubbered with blood streaming from his nose and mouth, cringing when Margot raised her fist again. "I don't… I don't know…"

Scoffing, she roughly released her grip on him and got to her feet, gingerly holding her bruised and scraped knuckles. If she was being honest with herself, she hadn't really expected Freddie to know anything. She'd gone there hoping for a confrontation, an excuse to vent her aggression on someone.

Glancing down, she grimaced. Freddie avoided her gaze, curled up into a ball, shaking and sniffling. Sirens wailed in the distance. They weren't for her—how could they be?—but she still decided it was a good time to leave.

"Nice talking to you again," she growled as she stepped over Freddie and left.

Margot climbed onto her bike and rode quickly away. She wasn't going anywhere in particular; she had nowhere to go. All she could do was try not to think about Bruce, wandering the streets somewhere. Perhaps he'd already killed that Malone guy. And Alfred, well he was a different problem, lying in a hospital bed, still not trusting her.

Eventually, she realized that she was running low on gas, so Margot pulled into the nearest gas station. As she was filling up, she checked her phone and noticed that she had a missed call.

Bruce.

She hurriedly called him back.

"Where are you?" she demanded as soon as she heard the phone click.

"I'm at home. Detective Gordon gave me a ride."

A wave of relief washed over her. She leaned against the gas pump and closed her eyes. "Are you all right?"

"I'm all right," he reassured her.

"Hold on. I'm on my way. Have you called Alfred?"

"Not yet."

"Right, well you'd better get on that." With that, she hung up and mounted her bike, rushing back to the manor.

"Bruce!" she called as she entered, prowling down the corridors and searching for the young man. He wasn't in his room, the kitchen, or the study. However, as Margot entered the study, she heard his voice call back to her faintly.

She turned towards the source of the sound and found herself staring at the wall where the fireplace used to be. Well, it was still there, but it had been moved back to reveal a stone passageway.

"What the hell?" she muttered to herself as she entered the passage and slowly made her way down the uneven staircase and into the room below. It was less of a room and more like a cavern.

Bruce was sitting calmly at a desk at the far end of the cave. "Hello, Margot," he greeted her coolly, hardly glancing up at her. He seemed to be writing something.

"How long has this been here?" she inquired in wary surprise as she gazed around the dark chamber.

Bruce ignored her question, finishing whatever it was he was writing on the thick, yellowed stationary. He quietly folded it and printed something on the outside.

"What's that?" she asked, coming nearer.

"It's for Alfred," the boy explained. Finally he looked up, standing and meeting her gaze with his as he added, "Will you make sure he finds it?"

"Why can't you give it to him yourself?"

Bruce hesitated. "I have business in the city," he explained, coming around the desk and propping the letter up on it. "Just…make sure he reads the letter. All of it."

He walked past her, and Margot turned to follow. "Bruce, I know it's none of my business, but what happened? And why are you going into the city at this hour?"

They emerged into the study, and Bruce picked his jacket up off of the sofa, slipping into it. "You're right, Margot," he told her with a nod. "It's none of your business."

"Bruce!" she called after him.

He stopped in the corridor and turned to face her. "Please, don't follow me."

"Just tell me what's going on," she pleaded earnestly. "I'm only trying to look out for you."

He nodded once. "I know. But if I'm going to make a difference, I can't keep depending on others." A faint, reassuring smile crossed his face, and he added, "I'll be all right."

With that, the smile faded, and he turned away, hurrying down the corridor and disappearing around a corner. Margot watched him go. She wanted to stop him, but she'd seen something in his eyes, a kind of determination that went well beyond his years. It froze her in her tracks.

Of course, as soon as he was gone, she felt the weight of it all start to crush her. What would she tell Alfred?

She wasn't sure, but she figured it was about time for that drink she'd mentioned earlier.

Sitting in the kitchen, nursing her drink, Margot tried to think about what she would say to Alfred, what she would do. She didn't get much time to think. It wasn't very long before she heard the buzzer signaling that a car had just come through the gate, and she made it to the front door just in time to see Alfred step out of a taxi.

"Taking a taxi? You?" she inquired as the man approached.

He scowled. "Yeah, well I went back for the car, and it wasn't where I left it."

"Unattended cars get stolen on the East Side all the time," Margot pointed out, stepping aside to let him in. "I could have warned you about that, had you asked."

He waved her off irritably. "Not now, Margot. Where's Bruce?"

She sighed. "He's not here. He left something for you, though."

Alfred turned to look at her in astonishment. "What do you mean, he's not here?"

She shrugged, not knowing what to say. The man hastened towards the study, calling for Bruce. He went straight into the dark passageway that led down into the cavern, as if out of habit. Of course Alfred would know about it, Margot thought, unable to keep herself from feeling a little bitter about being left out.

Following close behind, she was there when he found the letter, standing quietly in the shadows while he read it. She wasn't sure what it said, but she could guess by the way his face fell. He faltered a little, having to sit on the stairs before he collapsed.

A quiet curse escaped his lips.

Margot hesitantly approached and sat beside him. "What is it?" she asked.

He handed her the letter wordlessly, letting her read it. She felt surprisingly calm as she read. It did explain quite a bit.

"I assume he didn't kill that guy," she noted, feeling relieved by that, at least.

Alfred didn't respond, staring fixedly at his shoes.

She glanced at him, trying to discern how he was feeling. Concerned. Anxious. Devastated. "Alfred," she whispered, reaching out to touch his shoulder gently.

He flinched away from her touch. "That's twice you've let him slip away today," he stated softly.

The words hit her like a brick to the teeth, crushing her with accusation. "I tried to stop him," she replied defensively.

The man glared at her suddenly. "Did you really?"

"Look, I didn't realize I was supposed to be his prison warden," she retorted.

"You're supposed to protect him!"

Margot got to her feet. "If you would have trusted me—!"

Alfred also stood. "My God, Margot, that's all I've done!"

"You could have sent me after him and you didn't!" she reminded him.

"I didn't want to lose you!"

The declaration rang out in the dark, cavernous room, hovering in the air long after it was said, the words echoing in the silence.

Margot took a step back.

Before she could figure out how to respond, the man sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "A year ago, I would have had no qualms in sending you after Bruce. But today I did."

"What did you think would happen?"

He shook his head. "It doesn't matter." Looking up, he added, "This has to end."

Her heart dropped into her stomach. "What do you mean?" She already knew exactly what he meant, but she couldn't stop herself from asking.

Sighing, Alfred indicated the two of them with a hand and explained wearily, "Whatever this is between us, it's distracting, and it has to stop. As you said: Bruce comes first."

Margot felt as if she'd been flung off the side of a tall building. Right now she was still falling, but she knew that soon she'd hit the ground and feel the pain of the unyielding concrete against her fragile body. "Alfred, I…" she trailed off, not sure what she intended to say. What could she say?

Finally, shaking her head, she stepped away, retreating silently up the stairs. Alfred didn't even look at her as she left.

He simply let her go.


	32. Chapter Thirty-One

_"Nothing goes as planned.  
_ _Everything will break.  
_ _People say goodbye  
_ _In their own special way.  
_ _All that you rely on,  
_ _And all that you can fake  
_ _Will leave you in the morning,  
_ _But find you in the day."_

 _"In My Veins" –Andrew Belle_

* * *

Chapter Thirty-One:

He hadn't really meant to send her off so frigidly. It had been a long day, and his head ached—hell, his entire body ached. So with a glass of scotch, he sent himself off to sleep, and it was only when he woke in the morning that he realized the finality of his decision.

She was gone.

The manor was empty, devoid of life, except for the solitary butler, left alone with his thoughts.

Bruce was out on the streets of Gotham. Yes, he was with Miss Kyle, and that lairy girl certainly seemed to know her way around the city, but despite that, there wasn't a bone in the man's body that didn't ache to scour the city for the boy and bring him home safely. That's what he did. He was his guardian, his defender, his champion.

Could he withstand his protective instincts in order to respect the wishes of the boy? And was it simply his need to protect the boy that demanded he act? Or was it something else?

Was he afraid? Afraid that the boy was no longer a boy at all, but a young man—a young man who didn't need the butler's protection any longer? Who didn't need the butler at all?

If Margot were there, and if he expressed such worries, she would have simply laughed at him and turned the whole thing into some sort of joke. Either that, or she'd be on that ridiculous motorbike of hers, riding up and down the streets of Gotham, searching for Bruce.

Well, perhaps she was doing that anyway. There was no telling. She'd simply left sometime last night. Her bike was gone. Most of her things were gone, the rest scattered in disarray, as if she'd packed and left in a hurry. He didn't blame her.

It was for the best, he told himself. It was awful—God, was it awful—saying goodbye. But this way there'd be no distractions. Nothing to keep him from his duty, and his duty was raising that boy the best way he could. Even if right then it meant leaving Bruce to his own devices, despite every instinct of his.

Eventually, the boy would return, and he would be changed, because the streets changed people, Gotham changed people. Alfred didn't know when Bruce would come back, or what he would come back as. A boy? A man? Something in between? He only knew that he'd be different, and Alfred would have to figure out a way to manage that.

The last thing he needed was a distraction complicating things more.

For the time being, he would just have to accustom himself to being lonely again.

Simple work for a man like him.


	33. Chapter Thirty-Two

_Well...don't know what this was, but it happened, and now it's here. Thanks for the reviews/faves/follows! Always appreciated. :D_

* * *

 _"Everything will change;  
Nothing stays the same.  
Nobody here's perfect,  
Oh, but everyone's to blame.  
Oh, all that you rely on,  
And all that you can save,  
Will leave you in the morning,  
And find you in the day."_

 _"In My Veins" –Andrew Belle_

* * *

Chapter Thirty-Two:

Still no news from Bruce.

It had only been three days, but Alfred was well aware that things could change very quickly. The events of a single night had drastically changed Bruce's life forever. Alfred's too, if all truth be told. The butler couldn't help but dread an imagined phone call, not from Bruce, but from the GCPD. The boy gone. The butler alone.

 _"Alfred's a worrywart."_

The boy's words echoed in Alfred's mind, and he shook himself from his thoughts. Bruce was right. Here he was, highly skilled, well-trained, a killer, reduced to nothing more than a quivering bundle of nerves, all out of worry for the young man's wellbeing.

He'd determined to respect Bruce's wishes. That was, after all, what the late Waynes had wished for their son. Would they still believe that, knowing that he was out gallivanting on the streets of Gotham?

Alfred wondered how long he could last before he was reduced to a puddle of anxiety and stress. He had always known he cared for the boy, but his absence was now filled with a pain so acute it was like being stabbed in the gut—and Alfred had a pretty good idea of how that felt.

He tried to focus on other things, his responsibilities. Even without occupants, the manor still required a good deal of upkeep. But the tasks were meaningless, empty, just like the house. They offered no distraction. Even at night sleep evaded him, withholding any respite from his constant state of concern.

So he paced through the empty corridors in the dark, pondering, plotting, imagining the many ways he could find Bruce, protect him, even from afar, without drawing attention to himself.

It just so happened that this particular evening, he was making his rounds through the manor, chasing his thoughts, when he passed by the study. He'd avoided it since Bruce left. As bad as the empty house was, the study was worse. Its emptiness filled the entire room, where the boy's presence was missed the most. The scattered files, the corkboard with all of the pictures and notes, the dark fireplace.

Alfred intended to pass without a glance, but a flicker of light caught his eye, and he felt his heart stop for a moment. Indeed, his entire body froze, and he peered through the doorway, half expecting to see Bruce seated on the sofa, smiling calmly up at him, teasing him for being such a worrywart.

But, to his immense disappointment, the room was empty. The flicker of light was simply just a flutter of the gossamer drapes, brushed aside by a soft breeze, letting in a sliver of moonlight.

Heart sinking, Alfred was about to turn away, but something made him stop for a beat. His pulse quickened, and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. Something was wrong.

He was certain he'd closed each and every one of those windows.

He entered the study silently, carefully reaching for a cane that was propped up against one of the tables. A cursory investigation proved that the room was devoid of life. Going to the window, Alfred cast his gaze over the grounds and saw nothing. It wasn't until he reached to close the window that he noticed a small bit of dirt scattered over the sill, scraped from the shoe of some intruder. An intruder who could still be in the manor.

Closing the window, he turned and began to scour each room, each corridor, the cane held defensively in front of him. He wasn't necessarily afraid, or even concerned. Mostly he was curious.

Was the intruder a simple cat-burglar? Or, speaking of cats, perhaps it was that lairy minx, on some errand of Bruce's, sent to fetch something he'd forgotten. Or did the intruder have more sinister intentions?

He started to mount the stairs when a sudden noise alerted him to the presence of another person nearby—a soft thump and a muffled curse. He moved swiftly up the rest of the stairs and ran toward the source of the sound.

His room?

As he approached, he saw a light flicker on, radiating with a gentle glow from under the half-closed door. It wasn't the bedroom light, but the closet light, he realized as he slowly pushed the door open.

There she was, the intruder, standing in his closet, silhouetted in the doorway, still and quivering, as if she were preparing to bolt. She was like the deer he sometimes saw through the window in the early morning, just shadows in the mist, scattered across the grounds. Quiet and stoic, but fleeting, frightened away by the slightest sound.

"Margot." Her name was like a whispered gunshot, piercing the silence.

"Alfred," she replied just as quietly, avoiding his gaze. "I was just…" she trailed off and stared fixedly at the floor.

He knew why she was there, her purpose clenched tightly in both hands. The gun case. Her rifle. He didn't know how she'd known where it was; he supposed it didn't matter.

She seemed to find her voice again, prompted by his silence, and she explained with great discomfort, "I just came for the rest of my stuff."

"Why all the creeping about?" he inquired.

Margot shrugged, looking up at him and meeting his gaze, her hazel eyes suddenly accusing. "Forgive me," she replied with a hint of acid in her tone, "for wanting to avoid a confrontation like this one."

"Margot—" he murmured with a shake of his head, not sure what he was going to say.

She didn't even give him a chance. "Forget it. I was leaving anyway."

She took a step forward, intending to brush past him, but he caught her by the arm, holding her in place. "Margot, I never said you had to leave."

She turned to stare at him incredulously. "No," she retorted, "I'd hate to be a distraction."

He looked at her, noticed her clenched jaw, her loose, tousled hair, her white-knuckled grip on the rifle case. Mostly, he noticed the hurt expression in her eyes, the one she was hiding behind the sharpness of her anger.

For a moment, Alfred was absolutely certain that he could kiss it away, first the anger, then the hurt. Pull her nearer, press his body to hers, kiss her gently, then harder. Feel her react, surprised, indignant, angry even, then soft. Soft and yielding because she still wanted him. He could see it, sense it. And there was nothing he wanted to do more than give in and kiss her.

But he didn't.

Finger by finger, he loosened his grip on her arm and lowered his gaze, silently listening as her uneven footsteps carried her swiftly and quietly from the room and out of his life.

Because he was sure she would never come back.


	34. Chapter Thirty-Three

_"Everything is dark.  
It's more than you can take,  
But you catch a glimpse of sunlight  
Shining, shining down on your face."_

 _"In My Veins" –Andrew Belle_

* * *

Chapter Thirty-Three:

Alfred thought that if he kept himself busy, his thoughts wouldn't turn to the people he'd pushed away—Margot somewhere on the streets of Gotham, Bruce somewhere on the streets of Gotham. Well, technically he hadn't pushed Bruce away; the boy had left of his own free will, but Alfred still couldn't stop the guilt from telling him that if he'd just been a little more vigilant, if he'd done a little more, Bruce would still be there, and the manor wouldn't seem so abysmally silent.

Being busy didn't distract him at all. It was mindless work, tasks he'd done for years, tasks that didn't require any real concentration. Cooking made him all too aware that he was cooking for one, tidying the rooms only reminded him that Bruce wasn't there to unsort the butler's sorting—nothing changed, except perhaps for the gathering dust, which testified to the emptiness of the house. And when he left for a respite from the cloying silence of the manor, to prune the shrubbery, weed the garden, or to simply take a walk, he heard her voice in his ear, teasing, chiding, humming.

She hummed all the time. Or at least she had, when she'd been there. Whether she was working or just reclining on the sofa, half-distracted, she'd hum with tuneless pleasure. He didn't think she was aware of it. He'd never told her. It had bothered him, at one point, but he hadn't said a word. It was one of those little things he'd let slide, because it was more important that she was there and that she was happy than it was that he had peace and quiet.

In fact, he was starting to realize just how much he hated peace and quiet. Now that she wasn't there, he wished for nothing more than to hear that tuneless humming, to find those dirty footprints on his pristine kitchen floor, to follow them all the way out into the corridor and down to the study, where he'd see her on the sofa, legs outstretched, muddy boots propped up on the table, eyes closed. Bruce was there too, in his imaginings, just on the periphery of his vision, standing behind the desk, thoughtfully considering the photos and clippings on his corkboard.

Even in Alfred's imagination, the boy was still fixated on figuring out the mystery behind his parents' deaths. The butler knew by then that it would always be that way. There were key points in a person's life that determined who they were, fixed points that molded them, and this was one of Bruce's. That was why Alfred wasn't chasing the boy through the streets of Gotham, shadowing him, dragging him back to the manor if things got too dangerous. He knew that nothing could stop the boy from becoming the kind of man that found justice by whatever means necessary.

So, despite the toll it took on him, he left Bruce to his own devices, trusting that Miss Kyle knew how to protect him, that she would be strong enough and clever enough to keep him safe. Bruce trusted Alfred to respect his wishes, to not come after him. Alfred wouldn't betray such trust.

But he'd made no such promise to Margot.

He sat in the shadows of the dark town car, kitty corner to a bar on Gotham's East Side. Bar was a generous word. It was more like a pit, an entrance into the cesspool of humanity. People trickled in and out, shifty characters that were dodgy at best. Some looked positively criminal.

He'd been waiting there for a couple of hours already, watching, but he hadn't seen her yet. Still he waited; it wasn't as if he had anything better to do.

Finally, as the sky grew dimmer and the street lights began to flicker on, just as Alfred was beginning to doubt the information he'd been given, she stepped out.

Margot peered warily around before crossing the street hurriedly. Alfred ducked lower into his seat, not wanting to be spotted. Not that she'd be able to see him. The black car was nearly invisible, sitting just out of the street lamp's reach.

Why was he there? he asked himself. It was foolish and frankly a little obsessive. But there was a part of him that had to know that she was all right. That's why he'd reached out to his sergeant friend in the GCPD, asked him to do a little investigating. That's how he'd found out that she was bartending, that she lived in a small flat just a few blocks from the bar.

It wasn't long before she'd mounted her bike and sped off, leaving him there alone, still twisted up in knots. Was she all right? He didn't know. The only thing he knew was the guilt of second guessing himself and the regret that came with it.

He didn't often regret things, especially not when it came to protecting Bruce. Alfred had been Bruce's defender for so long that it was second nature to him. Anybody that posed a threat to his safety was strictly and summarily dealt with. But Margot didn't pose a threat to Bruce. She posed a threat to Alfred. No matter how many times he'd tried to convince himself that Bruce needed another defender, he'd never really believed it, not deep down. It was his special place in the boy's life, his true purpose. Sharing that with another person was nigh impossible.

At least he'd thought so. Now he was starting to realize that no matter what he did, he wouldn't always be the boy's sole protector. Right now, he had to trust that Miss Kyle would protect Bruce while teaching him about Gotham's dark underbelly. He hated the thought, but there wasn't much he could do about it.

Of course, that wasn't entirely why he'd ended things with Margot. He wasn't sure he even knew the exact reason. One word kept popping up repeatedly in his mind as he mulled it over.

Strategy.

Alfred knew a good deal about strategy, about tactics. He was a thoughtful, precise man. The more he thought about it, the more he understood. Neutralizing a threat before it became a danger. Avoiding risky situations when possible, rather than confronting every problem head on.

Margot was the threat. The risky situation. The problem. She upset the balance of his perfectly ordered life. She'd found a way through armor he'd spent years crafting and perfecting, and he wanted her out. Out of his life, out of his heart before she destroyed it.

She was reckless and impulsive. She was downright foolish at times. She made mistake after mistake, and neither Alfred nor Bruce needed that kind of influence in their lives. She was dangerous. Untrustworthy.

That's what he told himself, at least.

Alfred worried the car key between his fingers for a moment, staring thoughtfully into the darkness, before he turned the key in the ignition. He knew better than to remain in the East Side after dark.

He didn't intend to return again, not now that he'd seen her for himself. She'd be all right. She didn't need him.

Alfred was over the bridge and more than halfway home when he felt the buzz of his phone in the breast pocket of his jacket. He slipped the phone from his pocket and let his eyes flicker down at the name of the caller, a name that nearly sent him off the road and into the weeds.

Bruce.


	35. Chapter Thirty-Four

_"Oh, you're in my veins  
And I cannot get you out.  
Oh, you're all I taste  
At night inside of my mouth.  
Oh, you run away  
'Cause I am not what you found.  
Oh, you're in my veins  
And I cannot get you out."_

 _"In My Veins" –Andrew Belle_

* * *

Chapter Thirty-Four:

Even under the circumstances, Alfred was thrilled, no, positively ecstatic that Bruce had returned to the manor. The boy insisted that it wasn't for good, that he would leave as soon as Detective Gordon recovered. But Alfred was determined to make the best of it.

Once he'd seen to the detective and left him sleeping, Alfred descended into the kitchen, where Bruce was waiting. He joined him at the table, under the warm glow of the lights, and found himself thinking that it was almost as if the young man had never left.

"How is he?" the boy asked.

"Patched up, sleeping it off," Alfred replied. "He'll be a fair sight better after a good night's rest." He regarded the boy curiously, saw the deep concern in his eyes, noticed the circles under them, the hollow cheeks, the skeletal angles in his face. It was obvious he hadn't had a good meal in days. For the moment, though, Alfred refrained from mentioning anything. He'd wait until morning. Right now he was tiptoeing, afraid of making a misstep that might send the boy scurrying back to the city.

"Shall I fix you something to eat?" he inquired after a slight pause.

Bruce, who had been gazing around the kitchen, letting his eyes linger on the familiar surroundings, glanced at Alfred. He considered the question for a moment before nodding. "Yes, Alfred. I'd like that."

The man smiled and rose, happy to prepare something for the boy. They hadn't said much since Alfred had met Bruce and Selina in the city and given them a lift back to the manor with the wounded detective in tow. Most of their conversation had been about Detective Gordon, in fact. Still, as the butler began to collect the ingredients for a quick bowl of hot soup, he couldn't resist mentioning softly, "It's good to have you back, Master B."

"I won't be staying long," the boy reminded him.

"I know," said Alfred, avoiding Bruce's steady gaze.

He picked through a bit of leftover chicken and tossed it into a pot of broth, chopping vegetables quietly, each cut of his blade more than audible in the silence. He'd never felt awkward in Bruce's presence before, and even now it wasn't so much an awkward silence as it was a concerned silence.

Finally, he broke it. "Where's Miss Kyle?"

"Looking for Margot," replied Bruce. A small furrow formed between his eyebrows and he inquired, "Where is she anyway?"

Alfred felt his face fall, though he quickly disguised it. Turning to scrape the last of the carrots into the broth, he answered, "She left, Master Bruce."

"Left?" echoed the boy. "For good?"

The man nodded. "We decided that it was best."

Bruce frowned. "That doesn't sound like her at all."

Sighing, Alfred turned to the boy and grimly stated, "Right. Well frankly, sir, it's none of your business now, is it?"

His answer earned him a disapproving stare. "I didn't realize it was such a touchy subject."

"It isn't," he reassured Bruce.

The young man shrugged and seemed to let it go, falling silent and letting his gaze wander around the kitchen again.

"Perhaps you should see to Miss Kyle," Alfred suggested after a moment. "She may be lost, or worse, pocketing your valuables."

Bruce didn't even grace the suggestion with a response. "You didn't send her away, did you?" he asked suddenly.

"Who?"

"Margot."

"And if I did?"

Bruce seemed perturbed by the butler's cool demeanor. "Why would you do that? I thought things were going well."

Alfred considered not answering, but then he looked at the boy, sitting at the kitchen table, watching him fixedly. He deserved a little honestly. "They were," he replied. "But I have other responsibilities."

"Like shadowing me."

"Protecting you," he corrected.

"Hovering."

Irritated, Alfred snapped, "I don't hover."

Bruce sighed. "I appreciate your concern, Alfred, but I don't need you constantly protecting me. If anything, these past few weeks have proven that."

He knew the boy didn't mean to hurt him, but the words still stung. "Right," he responded quietly as he turned back to his soup. "Because I'm just the butler."

"You know that's not true," Bruce scolded the man sternly. He absently scratched at the table with a fingernail, adding in a softer voice, "I'm certain you had a good reason for sending her away. That's fine. But don't use me as an excuse."

They were both quiet for a bit, lost in thought.

Maybe the boy was right, thought Alfred. Maybe he had just used Bruce as an excuse. It was easier to tell Margot he was cutting their relationship short for the sake of the boy rather than admitting that it was because he was worried about getting too close, too attached. Because getting close to people meant letting them hurt you, deliberately or not.

Margot would one day hurt him. He knew it. And suddenly he knew not only why he pushed her away, but why he felt so protective of Bruce.

He'd let others in before, lowered his guard for them, grown close to them, even considered them family. And then they had died, leaving him alone with their only son in his care and a wound that had never quite healed.

It was too late for Alfred to guard himself against the concern and the love he felt for the boy. He could only do his best to protect Bruce so that he wouldn't lose him as well. But he had a chance with Margot, a chance to avoid the pain and the loss that would inevitably come. Even if it hurt for a while. Better to suffer a little now than excruciatingly later.

"I forgot how quiet the house is."

Alfred looked up at Bruce, meeting the boy's gaze. "Yeah, well you're out of the city now, aren't you, you little rake," he retorted. "Anything's quiet compared to that bedlam."

He tasted the soup after a few moments and, satisfied that it was done, prepared a bowl and served it to the young man. Bruce eagerly ate. Alfred couldn't help but feel pleased when he noticed the small, grateful smile that brightened the boy's face as he ate.

After a moment, Bruce glanced up and asked, "What was that song?"

Alfred frowned. "What?"

"Just a few minutes ago, while you were making the soup," the boy explained between bites. "You were humming something. Margot used to hum it too, I think."

"Just filling the silence, I suppose," Alfred replied softly, though he knew better. Bruce didn't seem to believe him either.

It was quiet again. Quiet because she was gone. And they both didn't like it.


	36. Chapter Thirty-Five

_"There are things I regret  
That you can't forgive, you can't forget.  
There's a gift that you sent,  
You sent it my way.  
So take this night,  
_ _Wrap it around me like a sheet.  
_ _I know I'm not forgiven,  
_ _But I need a place to sleep.  
_ _So take this night,  
_ _Lay me down on the street.  
_ _I know I'm not forgiven,  
_ _But I hope that I'll be given  
_ _Some peace."_

 _"This Night" –Black Lab_

* * *

Chapter Thirty-Five:

Alfred wasn't yet accustomed to the idea of having Bruce home, probably because the boy had changed, and so things weren't like before, and of course Margot wasn't there, so things certainly weren't like before at all, and he hated the idea that one day he might become accustomed to that, when right now he was still struggling to accustom himself to the idea of becoming accustomed.

Hell, even his own thoughts didn't make sense anymore.

Bruce was different. Leaner, harder, and just a little more jaded. He had secrets now that he didn't want to talk about, whereas before, Alfred felt as if he'd known almost everything about the boy. But the boy was becoming a man, and Alfred knew that men often had secrets. He supposed that what Bruce had done with his time in the city was one of those things he wouldn't talk about. He was growing up.

Alfred only hoped that the boy wouldn't outgrow him.

It was an irrational fear, imagining that Bruce wouldn't need the butler anymore, but the man still wondered sometimes, in the quiet hours of the dark night, if he was destined to be alone. Not hermit-in-a-forest alone. More like the solitude of an introvert in a crowd full of strangers—a close-proximity kind of isolation.

Alfred didn't like to waste time thinking on his life before employment at Wayne Manor. It was superfluous, just a series of events that had brought him there, to his home. When he'd first come there, it had been just a job. He'd done the work with his usual precision and attention to detail, but there had been nights off. Of course, it was just like the Waynes to work their way into even the stoniest of hearts, and soon they'd been like family to Alfred. Soon the nights off weren't spent in the city or closed off in his room with a glass of scotch and a book. It was checkers and chess and Parcheesi and, hell, even poker in the kitchen with the boy whose poker face couldn't ever fool the butler who'd watched over him since birth. And, of course, with the death of the Waynes, the nights off vanished entirely, because there was nobody else there for the boy, except Alfred.

Always.

Suddenly Alfred made a leap in logic. Suddenly something that had been bothering him finally made sense. He realized exactly why Margot had left. He understood why she hadn't at least tried to separate her job from her relationship with the butler and stayed on as gardener. She couldn't separate them, because sometimes there was no separating the two. Sometimes the job became more than a job, and the relationship changed and became something entirely different. If anyone could understand that it was Alfred, the employee/guardian/father-figure to Bruce.

He knew the feeling of the rug being swept out from under his feet. It hadn't been very long—a few months at most—since he'd suffered the disbelief and shock of being told by his twelve-year-old employer that he was fired. That after all Alfred's years of doing his duty, caring for the boy, after sleepless nights of fretting for his health, for his sanity, worrying himself sick, it was being thrown back in his face. And even after patching that up, things had been good for a while, but then Bruce had left and disappeared into the city with nothing more than a note to explain his absence. Well. He'd still forgiven him as soon as he'd returned. That was part of love. He loved that boy, which was why he'd forgiven him in an instant, as soon as he'd seen him in the station, and then again as soon as he'd seen him in that dark alleyway with a wounded Detective Gordon in tow, waiting for Alfred to come for him.

And Alfred had come, as always.

But now Alfred had pulled the rug out from under Margot in much the same way. True, he had never fired her, but perhaps that would have been more merciful. He'd cut her off from all she knew and cared for, and it wasn't for Bruce's sake, no matter how often he said that it was. It wasn't even for her own safety, because how safe was she really in that seedy bar on the East Side? At least if she was at the manor, where she belonged, dragged into Bruce's crusade or not, at least she'd have friends by her side. Family.

Yes, it seemed hypocritical when just the other night Alfred had insisted that Bruce leave Selina out of his crusade. But Selina wasn't a crusader. She lived on the streets of Gotham. She knew the city inside and out. She was safer and more at home there than anywhere else. She didn't know anything about crusades and wars, and she deserved to be left out of this one. She'd be safer that way.

Margot, on the other hand, was different. Alfred didn't doubt her ability to defend herself, but she was vulnerable in other ways. Ways that the streets of Gotham exploited. That's how she'd gotten caught up in contract killing and God only knew whatever other shady business came with it. Gotham hadn't been kind to her. But war? Margot knew all about that. It was the sort of danger she could handle, especially with trustworthy people at her side. People like Bruce and Alfred.

That's why he didn't feel guilty about the decision he made next. He was going to do anything in his power to bring her back.

* * *

Alfred was resolved to mend things with Margot, but perhaps when the timing was right, when things settled down for a moment, once all the brouhaha in the city had ended.

Of course, if he'd been honest with himself, he would have realized that it never ended, that bedlam had and always would be a part of Gotham, and maybe then he would have gone into the city to find Margot before it brought her to him.

The afternoon was cold and gray, typical of Gotham that time of year, when the wind had a bite and frost laced the ground. Bruce had only been home for a few days, but it felt like years had passed since Alfred had welcomed the boy home. So much had happened, and was still happening now, and he wasn't quite sure he had a handle on things anymore, least of all Bruce's newly discovered enthusiasm for his investigation.

So, when Alfred glanced through the window and saw Selina Kyle's familiar figure prowling the grounds, he strode for the nearest door, determined to chase the girl off. It was for her own good. She had no business hanging around Bruce when his crusade might get her killed. It would be all too easy; she expected unkindness from the butler, even if he was only trying to protect her.

Except as he came around the corner of a row of overgrown shrubbery, he didn't find Miss Kyle crouched in the shadows. It was Margot, and she was bleeding profusely.

"You're welcome!" a voice called from a distance.

Alfred glanced up and caught a glimpse of Miss Kyle atop the perimeter wall before she leapt down and disappeared. He had no choice but to turn his attention back to Margot, who looked as if she was struggling to remain conscious.

Reaching for her, he grabbed her arm and threw it over his shoulders, helping her to her feet. "What the bloody hell happened to you?" he asked as he led her inside.

"Bar fight," Margot replied, weakly trying to fend him off. "I'm fine."

Alfred ignored her. He led her into the study, but only because he knew that Bruce wasn't there and wouldn't be for at least another hour. There was no need to alarm the boy with Margot's appearance.

"Not your standard bar fight, by the looks of it," Alfred noted, spreading a blanket over the sofa and sitting Margot down on it. He was surprised by how normal it felt to have her there in the study, almost as if she'd never left.

"Low-level mobsters with too much to drink. There were four…five of them…I think. I told them they were getting a little too rowdy. They ganged up on me, dragged me out, left me in an alleyway, where Cat found me." She winced and added ruefully, "One of them had a knife."

"I see that," Alfred replied with a frown as he sat her down and looked her over. She had a few defensive wounds on her forearms, and there was a nasty gash across the side of her skull. "I'm surprised they didn't kill you."

"I'm sure they thought I was dead when they saw all the blood. Head wounds bleed profuse…pro—hold on."

Margot suddenly pushed Alfred's hands away and stood, swaying on her feet. She stumbled towards the door, paused, seemed to think better of it, and veered to the nearest window. She pushed it open, collapsed over the sill, and vomited into the flowerbeds outside.

Alfred couldn't do anything but crouch at her side and hold her hair out of her face.

"You all right?" he asked once she seemed finished.

She spit, wiped her mouth on her sleeve, and sat up slowly. "Sorry. Just a bit dizzy."

He shook his head, pulled her back inside, and set her on the sofa once more. "Let's finish cleaning you up."

Alfred had quite a bit of experience treating wounds. He was quick and neat and silent. There wasn't much to say at the moment, and he wasn't sure there was anything he could say to improve the situation. Margot seemed to be hovering in a state of mild catatonia, as if she'd lost any awareness of where she was or what was happening. In a way, it made things easier. At least he didn't have to deal with strained conversation as well.

Once the lacerations on her arms and the gash on her head had been treated, Alfred began to unbutton her shirt, which was torn and bloodied, just to make certain that he wasn't missing any other injuries that needed treatment.

Margot jerked upright suddenly and protested fiercely, "Back off!"

"You may have other injuries—" Alfred began to explain calmly.

"I'm fine!" she snarled.

"You're not bloody fine!" he responded just as aggressively. "Now take that bloody blouse off and let me look at you, or I'll drag you off to the hospital where all the doctors and nurses can poke and prod you."

Margot reluctantly finished unbuttoning her shirt, her eyes trained fixedly and with great suspicion on Alfred the entire time. He gave her a quick examination and found nothing more than the beginnings of a few bruises on her torso.

"You've a couple of bruised ribs, some cuts, and what seems to be a mild concussion," he told her after a moment. "On top of that, you've lost a lot of blood. You should be in a hospital."

"No hospital," Margot insisted with a shake of her head, which she seemed to regret immediately.

"Well then there's nothing more I can do except offer you a glass of scotch and let you sleep this off."

Margot stood on wobbly legs. "I'll be fine if you give me a ride back into the city."

Alfred caught her just as she stumbled. "You're staying here."

He noticed that she didn't protest much as he led her upstairs and to her old bedroom. She was probably too weak. He settled her in and fetched her the promised glass of scotch.

"Will you be needing anything else?" he asked, mostly out of habit, but partly out of concern. He already knew what she needed, and it was rest. At this point, he was just in the way.

"No," she whispered in a voice that was hardly more than a whisper.

"Right. You rest then. I'll return in a few hours."

Alfred turned to leave, but just as he was crossing the threshold, he heard Margot's faint voice behind him.

"Thank you."

He nodded and forced a smile, but he was frowning as he walked away.

She shouldn't be thanking him, he thought. Not when it was his fault she was even in such a state in the first place. It was his fault she'd left; his fault she was even in the city. And he knew that if anything ever happened to her, he'd never stop blaming himself.

* * *

"Alfred, was that blood I saw on those rags in the study?"

Bruce's question drew the butler out of his thoughts, and he forced himself to be calm as he replied, "Yes, Master B. Forgive me; I was just about to take care of them."

It wasn't like the man not to clean up after himself, to forget and leave something like bloody rags lying about the house. But his mind was occupied and worried, mostly about Margot, who at the moment lay unconscious upstairs.

"You're not hurt, are you?" the boy asked.

"No," he reassured Bruce quickly. "It's Margot. She popped by earlier today."

"Margot?" Bruce's eyes widened with concern. "Is she all right?"

"Yes," said Alfred with a nod. "She's resting upstairs. She may appreciate a visit from you later this evening if you feel like nipping upstairs for a quick hello."

"Of course. But why is she here? And why is she hurt?"

"I would like answers to those questions myself, Master B," Alfred replied honestly. Sighing, he turned to the young man and changed the subject with his usual amount of tact and grace. "Now, will you be taking your dinner here in the kitchen or up in the study?"

Bruce decided to eat in the kitchen, a pleasant turn of events, but Alfred wasn't in a position to appreciate it. He only lost himself in his thoughts again. Finally, he excused himself and went upstairs to check on Margot, mostly to make certain that she hadn't slipped into a coma or done something drastic.

Except she wasn't there when he peeked into the room.

Cursing, Alfred rushed down the stairs and towards the front door. Just as he suspected, he found Margot outside, limping down the lane, doggedly making her way out towards the main gate.

"Not even a goodbye?" he called to her from behind.

Margot jumped a little and whirled around, flushing red with the shame of being caught. "I didn't want to cause a scene," she replied, trying to keep her voice even.

"You shouldn't be out of bed."

"I don't belong here," she answered quietly, but with a hint of steel in her voice. "Not anymore."

Alfred sighed. "Margot, this is neither the time nor the place to be having this conversation. Come inside. We'll discuss this when you're well."

She didn't move, not towards him, but not away from him either.

Sensing her hesitation, Alfred continued, "Look, I should have never let you leave. Margot, please. Stay."

She wobbled a little, obviously losing energy quickly. Her face was blanched and she'd broken out in a cold sweat. She was shaking. "I—Alfred, I can't—"

For the second time that day, Alfred leapt forward in time to catch her before she toppled over. "You're in no condition to leave," he told her sternly. "Come."

And with that he took her back inside.

* * *

Margot slept through the night and most of the next day. When she emerged from her room late that afternoon, she found Alfred in the study, polishing the silver. He didn't hear her approach, just saw her watching him quietly in the doorway when he happened to glance up.

Well, at least she wasn't trying to sneak away again. She did, however, have her boots on, as well as the fresh change of clothes Alfred had left at the foot of her bed earlier that morning. It hadn't been a problem to find her clothes—she'd left in such a hurry that many of them had still been in the laundry, and she hadn't come back to claim them.

"Margot," he said. "Come in."

She limped her way into the room, taking a seat cautiously on the end of the sofa. Alfred noticed that she seemed more sure on her feet today. The dizziness must have passed.

"How are you feeling?" he inquired after a moment.

She was quiet for a bit, resting her head back against the cushions of the sofa and staring blankly up at the ceiling. Finally, she shrugged. "Still woozy."

"Well that's a right nasty knock on the head you have." He put down the rag and carefully removed his gloves. "Here, let me have a look."

Margot flinched as he reached out to touch her, but she didn't protest, letting him examine her head without complaint.

"How's the dizziness?" he asked.

"Better."

"Are you having any other trouble? Has it affected your vision? Any severe headaches?"

"No. I mean, yeah, it hurts, but I've survived worse."

Alfred pursed his lips. "Well, it seems to be healing, but you should still stay for a few more days, just to be safe."

Margot craned her neck around to get a good look at him. "Why the sudden change of heart? I thought you wanted me gone."

"I never wanted you to leave."

She snorted derisively. "Right."

Alfred retreated calmly, resuming his polishing before he replied honestly, "I was angry and afraid."

"For Bruce," she scoffed. "I know—"

"No, Margot," he answered firmly, staring fixedly down at his hands. He'd been anticipating this moment ever since he'd realized that he needed to confront Margot, and now that the time had come, he didn't know what exactly to say. Words that he'd rehearsed repeatedly had now left him. So he kept his gaze down as he opened his mouth, hoping that whatever came out would be right. "Yes," he admitted. "I feared for Bruce's safety, and I was angry that you were here with him and didn't stop him. But that's not why I pushed you away."

Margot's voice was quieter, less accusatory and more pleading as she asked, "Then why?"

Alfred sighed and stopped polishing for a moment. It was probably for the best. He wasn't exactly in a state of mind to be cleaning the black bits of tarnish from the delicate whorls and ridges of the silver dessert fork he had in his hands. "You and I never really discussed what happened between us. This is the first time in several years that I've felt this way for a woman." He looked up and met Margot's hazel eyes with his own gaze. "For you."

"And how's that?"

After all the time he'd spent agonizing over the very conversation he was currently having, the man had no more cards to play, no more excuses or explanations. Anything he'd considered saying was gone, except:

"Margot, I need you."

She recoiled visibly, stunned and more than a little taken aback. Not the reaction Alfred had hoped for, but not necessarily a surprise to him.

"Why the hell would you even say that?" she demanded. "I am so fucking pissed at you—and rightfully so—and here you are trying to tell me that you need me? Do you really? Is that why you ended things? Did you 'need' me then?"

Alfred opened his mouth to explain, but Margot wasn't finished. She was on her feet by now, and her voice was starting to fill the room.

"This place was the closest thing I had to a home! I had a job here that I loved! People here that I loved! And you took it all away. I bet you didn't even think about it!"

"We never considered the risks we were taking—"

"I did! I knew it would be a disaster if anything ever went wrong, but I did it anyway. Alfred, you stupid ass, I was head over heels for you!"

He winced a little, but otherwise remained impassive as he inquired softly, "Am I to take it that you're not anymore?"

Margot grimaced and snarled, "Damn it, of course I am! But I'm not some wind-up monkey you can send away and bring back whenever the hell you want, just because you _need_ me! I'm going back to the city. Thanks for patching me the fuck up, you ass."

"Margot—" Alfred began to protest, only to be silenced with a glare.

She limped for the door, pausing long enough to add, "You can call me a taxi. Tell them I'll be somewhere between here and the city."

Then she left.


	37. Chapter Thirty-Six

_Sorry for the long wait! As always, season 2 spoilers. I was going to split this between a few more chapters, but meh, I decided it was better as a big chunk. Hope you enjoy!_

* * *

 _"Oh, I should sing a little bit faster,  
I'm to blame for this disaster.  
I'm repairing my heart for you.  
Oh, and I should breathe a little bit softer,  
Oxygen reminds me I lost her,  
I'm repairing my heart for you."_

 _"Daylight" –Andrew Belle_

* * *

Chapter Thirty-Six:

"I'm done waiting," the boy had said. And despite the growing feeling of unease in Alfred's gut, he'd gone along with it, taking the boy to see this Karen Jennings who lived just beyond the outskirts of the city. Because Alfred knew that Bruce would continue on, with or without him, and the butler preferred to be at his side, protecting him.

Except things were not only getting weirder, but more dangerous as well, and the truth seemed more obscure than ever. To top it off, it wasn't just Bruce in danger, but anyone around him. As if in reminder, the pain in Alfred's hand flared up. He glanced down at the bandage and noticed that the wound was beginning to bleed through. It was a relatively small—if painful—injury, nothing serious to worry about. But it had also been an accident of sorts, caused by a friend, not an enemy. If their friends were causing them such injuries, he'd hate to see what the enemy could do.

In fact, he'd seen just that night what their real enemies could do. He'd seen with his own eyes the destruction that the men they were pursuing had done to Karen, their one link to the truth. And she, hardly more than a girl herself, had resigned herself to it in the end. Probably because years of hiding in fear had exhausted her, drying up the reservoir of her resolve. And in the end she'd realized that the only thing to do was give up, if by giving up she could save the others, Bruce included.

And this was only the beginning. Alfred knew Bruce wouldn't give up, not until he'd expunged every last shred of doubt and mystery and finally brought justice to those who had caused his parents' murders. It was a good and just cause, yes, but at what price would it come?

Alfred had told Bruce there would be others. Others who would lose their lives in his pursuit of the truth. In his pursuit of justice. If Bruce couldn't handle that responsibility, then he wasn't ready.

He was always questioning the boy's readiness, not because he doubted, but because he feared the consequences the boy would have to face. As the danger mounted, as the stakes climbed higher, Alfred was slowly losing his ability to protect the boy. But the boy insisted, and the butler had to trust him. For Alfred, that meant being ready himself. Ready to risk everything.

Maybe that was why it was for the best that Margot had left.

Except that far on the other side of town, Margot was wondering if she had really made the right decision.

* * *

 _THWACK._

The sound echoed smartly over the nightly bustling of the city below, resounding in the chilly air.

Margot watched as the worn and dirtied baseball came bobbing back over the rooftop and within her reach. She snagged it in a hand and turned it over absently, staring at a patch that had been worn down and smoothed by frequent handling.

After a moment, she looked back up at the brick wall that protected the access stairway and, with a well-practiced movement of her arm, sent the ball spinning back.

 _THWACK._

It smacked against the wall and bounced back to her, rolling neatly to a stop at her foot.

She bent and, picking it up, threw it again.

 _THWACK._

"It makes no sense," she muttered mostly to herself, worrying the ball in her hand once it came back to her. "He made it crystal clear he wanted me gone."

 _THWACK._

She cocked her head to the side, almost as if she was listening to somebody. "No," she argued, "I don't care what he says. Did he really think I was going to hang around and keep working there after being humiliated like that? God!" she exclaimed with a frustrated laugh, "I actually believed we had something."

 _THWACK._

"Something different than all the others." She caught the ball as it rolled back to her. She ran her thumb over a part where the leather was coming free of the stitching. "I know I have terrible taste in men," she growled defensively. "You've never said so, but I know that's what you're thinking. You never had to say it. Mom always did."

 _THWACK._

The ball went soaring and smashed into the wall again. Margot couldn't help but recall earlier memories of that same ball on a different rooftop, where she and her father had practiced catch after dinner. They'd stay there for an hour or so, until the sun went down and it became too dark to play. She'd long since lost her glove, and her father, but the ball remained in her possession.

They'd always had conversations like the one she was having with herself now. Even as a fourteen-year-old, she'd never had trouble sharing her most private thoughts with her father. He'd been her confidante, her advisor, her best friend.

Until the construction accident.

 _THWACK._

"He's not like the others," she explained. "He's genuine. He's honest. Not that you'd like him. You never liked any of my boyfriends, and that was back when I'd only had three or four." Sighing, Margot drew her arm back and propelled the ball forward again.

 _THWACK._

"Look, he didn't do anything, all right? That's why I'm so pissed. He probably thought he was protecting me. Or Bruce. Or both of us." She absently picked up the ball and began to toss it from hand to hand. "You really should see the way he takes care of that kid. He's a rare one, Dad. I wish you could meet him."

Margot seemed to realize how silly it was to be talking to nothing but air, and her face fell. Gripping the ball tightly, she wound herself up like a pitcher on the mound and put all her force behind the next throw.

 _THWACK!_

The ball struck the wall, the sound cracking almost like a gunshot in the night air. This time it didn't bounce back. It simply dropped to the ground and spun in a few wobbly circles. Frustrated, Margot approached and stooped to pick it up, only to find a loose flap of leather that had finally broken free.

She growled and shoved her hands—and the baseball—deep into the pockets of her jacket.

"I'm not going back there. I don't care if he wants me back." A flash of pain crossed her face and she snarled, "He broke my heart once—he's not getting another chance to do it again."

She didn't receive a response. She hadn't really expected one. Mostly, she came up to the roof just to pretend that her father was there, talking to her in her head, as if hearing her own advice in his voice would make it seem somehow better.

It didn't.

She was still just as angry and confused and brokenhearted as ever. It didn't help that her head was throbbing. She hadn't yet recovered completely from the disastrous confrontation at the bar.

But something still troubled her, and she knew she couldn't resolve it on her own.

Finally, Margot sighed. "Damn it, Margot, you sentimental sap."

She gathered herself together and stormed down the roof access, down the stairs of the dilapidated apartment building, and out onto the street below, swinging her leg over her bike and starting it up. She knew where she was going, stopping only to buy a cheap bottle of scotch—the only kind she could afford with what little money she had left. What she didn't know was what she would do when she got there. Either share the scotch or break the whole bottle over that bastard's head.

She'd decide when she saw him again.

* * *

The manor was quiet and dark when Margot arrived. Of course it was. It was the middle of the night. She wasn't sure what she was doing there at that hour, she only knew that her business couldn't wait until morning. She tried not to make too much noise as she approached, but her motorbike had probably already awakened everybody inside. She waited in the driveway for a few moments, waiting to see the inevitable flicker of lights coming on through the windows.

But the windows remained dark.

Frowning, she dismounted from her bike and limped around the back side of the manor, where most of the bedrooms looked out over the grounds. Margot counted the windows a couple of times, making sure she had the right one before she bent to pick up a handful of small pebbles from a nearby planter.

She had just pulled her arm back, ready to launch the gravel towards the second-story window, when a sudden shout to her left caused her to leap in surprise.

"Hold it right there! Hands where I can see them."

She raised her hands, pebbles clenched in one fist and the bottle of scotch in the other as she turned to the source of the voice.

Alfred stood a few paces away, illuminated in the weak white moonlight, his eyebrows knit together, eyes hard, a pistol clenched in his hands and aimed directly at Margot. As she turned and as he took a step forward, the man suddenly recognized her.

"Margot?" he exclaimed, dropping his aim immediately. "What the bloody hell are you doing skulking about at this hour?"

Now that she wasn't staring down the barrel of a handgun, she noticed that he was only in his shirtsleeves, his suspenders hanging loosely from his trousers. His hair was ruffled, his shirt wrinkled, and it seemed as if he hadn't gotten much sleep, even before Margot arrived.

She didn't answer at first, and Alfred came closer, inquiring in a slightly more even voice, "What's that in your hand?"

She glanced at her right hand and opened it, letting the pebbles fall from her palm. "Gravel," she explained. "I was about to throw it at your window. I thought you'd be sleeping."

Peevishly, Alfred stashed the gun in the waistband of his trousers and growled, "Not with you riding up on that bloody motorbike of yours. I should have known it was you." He paused before asking suspiciously, "What's this all about then? And why couldn't it wait until a more respectable hour?"

Margot shrugged, starting to wonder if she'd made a mistake. Right now, she was seriously considering the scotch-bottle-over-the-head approach to the situation. Instead, she simply replied, "I've been thinking about what you said, and I think we should talk." She lifted the bottle of scotch halfheartedly and added, "I brought liquor." Glancing at the manor, seeing how quiet it was, she asked, "Do you think you can sneak away for a bit?"

Alfred regarded her quietly for a moment. Finally, he offered, "Why don't you come inside?"

Margot wasn't sure how comfortable she felt, being invited inside. She knew she wasn't welcome there, that she didn't belong there, but it still felt too familiar, like a home, and that made her ache.

Despite her misgivings, she gave in after a moment, realizing that Alfred wasn't going to leave Bruce alone in the manor while he went off with Margot somewhere in the middle of the night.

"All right," she agreed.

In the kitchen, Alfred took the bottle of scotch from her and poured two glasses. She'd peeled the price tag from it after purchasing it, but the label still gave the game away. But, if Alfred noticed that it was cheap convenience store liquor—and Margot was sure that he did—he didn't show any sign of it. He simply pushed one glass her way, took the other, and sat at the table with her. Not across from her. Beside her.

They drank in silence for a few minutes before either one spoke. Finally, Alfred broke the silence.

Turned slightly towards her, he absently swirled the amber liquid in his glass and inquired, "What brings you here so late?"

Margot wasn't sure what she was going to say, but she figured she might as well start with the truth. "What you said the last time we talked…it made me think."

"So you've said."

Maybe it was late and she was tired. Maybe she was just still angry at him. But there was something about the tone of his voice, the calm way he spoke those words, that irked her.

She felt the furious heat building inside her again, and she had to tamp it down quickly before she started shouting. After a moment, she had calmed down enough to inform him, "Be patient with me, all right? I hate talking about this sort of stuff."

"What sort of 'stuff'?" he inquired with that infuriating calm.

Margot faltered a little under that piercing blue gaze. "Feelings and things. It makes me uncomfortable, especially around you."

The man considered her thoughtfully, taking a small sip of scotch. He didn't make a face as he tasted the liquid, but she thought she caught a bit of a twitch in his left eye that could have been a small wince. "Am I that difficult?"

"No," she admitted, staring down at her glass. "You're just…intimidating sometimes. And talking about feelings has never been one of my strengths."

His hand rested on her arm, drawing her gaze back up to his. "Just tell me what this is about," he encouraged her quietly.

A shuddering sigh escaped her. "Look, you and Bruce are the closest thing I have to a family anymore. Or at least, you were. I knew it was stupid to get involved with you, Alfred. I knew it would complicate things; I knew I'd have to leave if things ever went badly. But I hoped they wouldn't. I thought we had something that could…" she faltered again, hesitating before she finished, "something that could work."

The man was regarding her with a strange expression, both sad and thoughtful, and just the tiniest bit amused. Finally, he spoke after an interminable silence. "I thought so, too," he agreed softly.

The past-tense troubled Margot. "You don't think it's possible anymore?" she asked tentatively. Somehow, that depressing thought seemed to dampen her anger more than encourage it.

Alfred fixed his gaze on his glass, swirling its contents slowly. "Margot," he murmured, "I do." He looked up as he added, "But everything is bedlam. The world's gone mad and it's only getting worse."

Margot nodded, believing she understood the gist of what he was trying to say. "You've got more important things to focus on right now."

"While that may be true," Alfred admitted, "I do want you to stay." He smiled with faint encouragement as Margot glanced up to meet his gaze. "However foolish and selfish that makes me, I do want you to stay," he reassured her.

She opened her mouth to reply, but before she could get her hopes up too much, Alfred interrupted her.

"But I need you to know that if you return here, you're putting yourself in great danger."

Margot nodded. "So Bruce isn't letting up on his investigation, is he?"

Alfred shook his head. "No, he's not. And he's getting close, too. But," he stressed the next few words very carefully, "People have died, Margot." He let that sink in before he added, "Look, good help is hard to come by these days, and I certainly wouldn't turn down your offer if you wanted to return, but you need to know the risks."

She studied him for a bit. She'd always known that Alfred came with baggage, namely his dedication to keep Bruce safe that came before everything else.

"You and Bruce. Bruce and his mission to find the truth. You're saying that it's all inseparable. If I want you, I have to involve myself in this whole thing."

Alfred shrugged slightly and spread his hands helplessly. "It's a package deal, luv. You're putting yourself at risk just by associating with us."

Again Margot nodded, but she remained silent.

"It's a bit of a raw deal," Alfred confessed wryly.

Margot scoffed and shook her head. "Welcome to my life," she joked darkly. A shadow of doubt flickered across her face, and she inquired, "Do you really think I'd be all that useful to you?"

A wan smile crossed the man's face. "Honestly? We could use any help you'd be willing to give." He grimaced and added, "And anyway, it's not about usefulness, Margot. It's about loyalty, and if anything, you've proven to have plenty of that. Just the fact that you're here and you haven't bashed my head in with that bottle yet is proof of that."

She knew he was joking, but she couldn't help considering the bottle of scotch as she admitted, "I did consider that possibility on my way over here."

The man let out a soft laugh. "I don't doubt it."

Margot realized how much she'd missed his laugh. It sounded as if he hadn't laughed in quite some time.

He reached for her, placing his hand over hers, all traces of laughter gone as he assured her seriously, "Margot, we need you."

She couldn't help but remember the other night, when he'd told her that very same thing, and it brought a question to her mind, something she'd noticed but had been too upset to point out. "You said that to me the other night," she told him.

The man's brow furrowed curiously. "And?"

"It seemed like you were about to say something else."

Alfred frowned. "What do you mean?"

"When you said you needed me. You hesitated a little, like you meant something else."

"I meant what I said," he assured her, but he was still frowning. "It's just that… I also wished I could have…" Alfred paused, and it seemed as if he was considering something. Finally, he decided to throw caution to the wind. His glass came down on the tabletop with a loud clink, and his eyes burned into Margot's as he cursed, "Damn it, Margot, I love you."

A surprised shock of elation shot through her, despite the circumstances. She could feel her residual anger beginning to melt away. Still, she forced herself to remain calm and cautious. It would be foolish to leap headfirst into another heartbreak just because of a few words.

"Do you mean it?" she found herself asking.

Alfred seemed almost offended by her doubt. "I wouldn't say it if I didn't," he retorted.

"You almost didn't say it," she pointed out.

"Yeah," he contested heatedly, "Well I'm saying it now, aren't I?"

Margot nodded and realized suddenly that she was shaking. "OK." She couldn't quite figure out what to say next. All of the lecture and explanation and scathing censure that she'd intended to give the man seemed somewhat pointless by that point. So instead she looked at Alfred and confessed honestly, "I love you too, you know."

He moved nearer, whispering, "That's good to hear."

He was very close then, and Margot realized how long it had been since she'd been in such close proximity with the man. He still smelled the same, still radiated warmth, still gave her that small smile that began in one corner of his mouth and spread over the rest of his face.

Then he kissed her.

Margot closed her eyes and stopped noticing anything that wasn't the salty taste of his mouth on hers, the flush that rose over her skin, the stab of longing that pierced her in the gut, the soft quivering of his lips when they parted.

"What now?" she whispered after a moment, hoping he'd suggest relocating upstairs.

But Alfred, it seemed, was thinking more practically for the moment. "Well, I expect you'll be returning here, won't you?"

Disappointed, Margot couldn't help but string him along, pretending to mull it over. "I was hoping to stay in the city. I could keep my bartending job—"

She'd intended to continue, but the horrified expression on his face stopped her midsentence. Margot grinned and shook her head as she amended, "Or I'll just stay here."

Alfred seemed satisfied, but he added ruefully, "Although, with the way things have been going lately, we may find that you would be safer in that sketchy bar than here."

"I'll take my chances."

The man smiled and absently glanced across the room towards the small clock than hung on the wall opposite. He frowned suddenly and muttered, "Bloody hell."

Margot glanced over her shoulder, completely unaware of what the man was looking at. "What?"

"It's late," Alfred stated. "Or early, depending. It appears we've drunk the night away." He paused, regarding Margot with concern, and suggested gently, "Why don't you pop on up to bed for a quick kip?"

She hesitated. "What about you?" she inquired worriedly.

He shook his head. "Master Bruce will be up and about soon and expecting his breakfast." Still seeing her hesitation, he reassured her, "I'll be all right. This isn't the first time I've gone without sleep." He smiled wryly and added, "I doubt I could sleep anyway after a night like this."

And he kissed her again, pulling her close, holding her there long after the kiss had been broken. Margot, head spinning, eyes stinging from exhaustion, remained still, not wanting to leave. She was afraid that if she slept, she'd wake up and realize that it had all been a dream.

After a moment, though, Alfred insisted, pulling away and standing. He led her up to her room, even though she still knew her way. Once there, they stood in the doorway, Margot just barely inside the room, Alfred just barely outside, unsure of how to end the night.

Finally, Margot leaned forward and brushed her lips against his weathered cheek. "Thank you," she whispered.

He nodded. "I'll see you in the morning then."

"Better make it afternoon," she replied with a wan grin. "I probably won't even be conscious until midday."

Alfred chuckled and bid her goodnight, and though Margot was certainly tired enough to sleep through the next day, she found it difficult to fall asleep until eventually, long after dawn, her giddiness and the shaking had subsided just enough to let her drift off into a dreamless oblivion.


	38. Chapter Thirty-Seven

_"I found a good woman,  
_ _I found a job that pays.  
_ _The tide comes in, I watch it all wash away.  
_ _But I'm keeping it steady, that's just how I was raised,  
_ _Head held up, walking tall into each breaking wave…  
_ _And I say oh, oh,  
_ _Rain don't change the sun.  
_ _Jealous is the night when the morning comes,  
_ _But it always comes."_

 _"Morning Comes" –Delta Rae_

* * *

Chapter Thirty-Seven:

Nothing good was happening to Gotham. That's what Bruce had come to conclude, and Alfred was inclined to agree with the young master of Wayne Manor. But then again, he knew of one thing that had finally gone right, and she walked through the door to the study late the next afternoon.

"Morning, gents," she said in a fair imitation of Alfred's own estuary accent, folding her arms across her chest and leaning against the doorframe.

Bruce glanced up in a hurry from the file he was studying, probably yet another collection of papers for, about, or by Hugo Strange, Alfred thought dryly.

"Margot!" the boy exclaimed, a wide grin spreading unconsciously across his face as he stood. It had been a while since Alfred had seen a smile anywhere near that caliber cross Bruce's face. Not to mention that the boy stood so quickly that he bumped the file from the table and sent it slithering to the floor. "When did you arrive? What are you doing here?"

Margot, looking well-rested, raised an eyebrow curiously at Alfred, a questioning look in her eye. He gave her a faint smile and a fainter shrug; he'd kept a tight lip and saved her the pleasure of announcing her return to Bruce herself.

"Turns out the inner city isn't as nice as I remembered it," she explained in her normal voice. "Seems as though I've gone soft." Glancing around, she finished with a shrug, "So, I came back here, saw the jungle outside that's passing for a garden these days, and decided it would be mutually beneficial for all of us if I returned." As she spoke, she grinned and pushed off of the doorframe she'd been leaning against, entering the room and easily ensconcing herself in the corner of the sofa opposite Bruce.

"Well," said Bruce, remembering himself and moderating his excitement as he sat again, "it's good to have you back."

"It certainly is," agreed Alfred emphatically, casting a meaningful smile of his own at Margot. "Did you sleep well?"

"Incredibly," she replied with great content. It had been a long time since she'd slept in an actual bed. While in the city, she'd simply used a sleeping bag on top of a camping mat on the floor.

Ever eager to be of service, Alfred inquired, "Can I fetch you anything?" He glanced at Bruce, watching the boy gather up the contents of his file, and added, "You too, Master B. Anything for you?"

Margot saw the hint of concern in the butler's eyes. Still the same as always. Bruce, on the other hand, had changed since she last saw him. Granted, he'd visited her while she'd been there a few days ago, but she could hardly remember the brief encounter, as she had still been in a concussion-induced fog.

He was thinner, taller, and had a sudden inexplicable preference for the color black. Perhaps his time on the street had taught him that black was a good, obscure color for blending in and staying out of sight. And she saw a difference in the way he looked at Alfred, the way he addressed the man, still respectful, but more like a colleague or a friend and less like a guardian or an employee.

"Some tea would be nice," the boy replied after a moment of thought, still focusing on his file.

Alfred looked askance at him, and Margot could practically see him straining not to explain that he had meant actual food and not hot flavored water with a few molecules of honey in it. But if the boy even saw the look, he ignored it pointedly, and Alfred could only sigh silently, roll his eyes heavenward, and glance at Margot.

"Tea sounds good to me," she said with a smile. She'd lived at the manor long enough to know that tea was never just tea when Alfred was involved.

Sure enough, once the exasperated butler returned with tea in tow, Margot noticed a plate of hot scones and a jar of fruit preserves accompanying the usual tea service. He'd probably made the scones that morning and simply heated them up for a few minutes in the oven. They were light and airy, the preserves a deliciously tart compliment, and after about four of them, Margot wondered how she'd ever survived without scones before. Then she caught Alfred watching her, the man masking his smile just a half-second too late, and realized that she'd forgotten entirely about the tea.

At least, she thought to herself, Bruce seemed distracted enough by her obvious enjoyment, that he put down the file long enough to spread preserves on his own scone, which he ate while reading quietly to himself, trying unsuccessfully to minimize the amount of crumbs that dropped onto the papers.

 _There_ , said the triumphant expression she shot at Alfred, _I'm a good influence on him._

The man acquiesced with a faint nod, his face grim again, but his eyes sparkling with a pleased expression.

Suddenly, the significance of the completely insignificant scene that had just unfolded struck Margot. There she was, comfortable in the warm, close quarters of the study, with the two people she cared for nearby. She sipped at her tea and felt it warm her from the inside, though it paled in comparison to the warmth of returning home, where she belonged.

For several minutes, nothing broke the silence, except for the cheerful crackling of the fire in the hearth, and the occasional turn of the page as Bruce continued to read through the file. Alfred moved silently through the room like a restless wraith, tidying up, rearranging piles of books, files, and loose papers. His footsteps were softened by the thick rugs covering the floor, and his deft hands quickly and quietly made short work of the clutter.

Margot watched him in mild curiosity, content to simply watch absently as the man moved through the room. Outwardly calm, Alfred seemed perfectly at ease, but Margot knew him well enough to observe that for a man who could be quite good at remaining perfectly still, he was certainly moving around a lot. Nerves, perhaps? He did seem to cast quite a few glances in Bruce's direction. Bruce, on the other hand, seemed completely absorbed in what he was doing.

"Margot."

In her ponderings, Margot had lost track of the butler, and now she glanced up to notice him standing at the far end of the sofa, his head cocked curiously to the side as he waited for her to acknowledge him.

"Yes?"

"I assume you have some personal effects that you might wish to have handy. I'd be happy to take you to the city to retrieve them, if you'd like."

Margot smiled at the invitation and wondered at the reason for it. Was Alfred simply being kind, or did he have some ulterior motive? Perhaps he was merely searching for something to do, anything to keep his mind off of the pensive young man on the sofa, devouring file after file and hardly eating, entirely wrapped up in the task at hand.

Well, there was one way to find out.

"Sure," she replied, setting her teacup down and stretching as she stood. "I could use some fresh air anyway."

"Not sure how 'fresh' city air is," Alfred murmured as she joined him and followed him from the room.

Margot let out a soft laugh. "What are you saying? That even the air pollution out here is of higher quality?" she teased.

The man shot her a flat, unamused stare, which only caused her to laugh more.

"I see my sharp wit hasn't been missed," she noted.

"It's still missing, as far as I'm concerned," Alfred replied dryly.

Margot still thought she caught a flash of a smile in the man's stern eyes.

Her suspicions about his ulterior motives were proved correct when after only a minute or so of driving, Alfred glanced at her and stated, "Now that you're returning, I think it's best if I bring you up to speed on the way matters have progressed."

Margot nodded quietly and seriously. This was business. As happy as she was to be returning to Wayne Manor, to be in Alfred and Bruce's company once more, she realized that it was coming at a price, and this was it.

"Let me guess," she began, "Bruce found out that the Malone guy who killed his parents was just a hired gun."

"Yes."

"And now he's after the people who hired him."

"Yes."

"And?"

Alfred kept his eyes on the road as he replied, "He has a name. A woman died trying to help him find that name." He paused for a moment, waiting for the weight of that statement to sink in. Continuing, he said, "It's all got to do with some hush-hush program connected to Wayne Enterprises—no need to bore you with the details. Needless to say, our man is well-connected. Strange is his name, Dr. Hugo Strange, head of Arkham Asylum. He won't be an easy nut to crack, not to mention we suspect he's behind Galavan's sudden reappearance."

"What?" Margot whirled so quickly to face Alfred that her seatbelt locked, cutting into her neck suddenly. Managing to fix it with a couple of tugs, she inquired carefully, "Whose reappearance?"

Alfred cast a sidelong glance at her. "You haven't heard? It was all over the news last night. Galavan's back."

"But I thought he was—"

"Dead," finished Alfred. "I know." The man sighed heavily and shifted a little as he braked for a red light. Looking at Margot, his expression was one of utmost solemnity as he told her, "There's a lot I've seen in the past few days that you'd be hard-pressed to believe. That's why we need you, Margot."

She considered the new information thoughtfully, her brow furrowed. After a moment, she voiced her first concern. "Should we be leaving Bruce alone at the manor?"

Alfred was already shaking his head as the light turned green and he accelerated through the intersection. "Galavan's not after Bruce this time. He's after Gordon, probably because he's been heckling Strange."

Margot saw the reassuring glance he shot her way, but she still felt uneasy.

That feeling didn't go away, even as they pulled up to her apartment building. By night it was a sinister, shadowy blot on the side of the narrow street, but in that late afternoon light, it was just a run-down, dilapidated building.

Alfred offered to go up and help her, but Margot declined. "I don't have much."

Which was true enough, she thought as she climbed the stairs to her apartment. Mostly, though, she didn't want the man to see the squalor she had been living in for the past month. She packed her belongings quickly. In her hurried departure from Wayne Manor, she'd left a lot of things behind—clothes, her landscaping sketchbooks and drawing supplies. Now all her belongings fit into a single backpack. Well, except for the rifle, which was still in its case, hidden in a cupboard under the kitchen sink.

She grabbed it, and the backpack, and made her way back down the stairs to where Alfred was waiting with the trunk of the car already open. She noticed the way he looked at her rifle case and held up a hand to reassure him.

"Don't worry, you can hide it somewhere in that big mansion if it makes you feel safer."

"No, actually," he responded quietly as he took the case and the backpack from her and stowed them securely in the trunk. "You should hold onto it this time."

Already uneasy, Margot was further unnerved by his statement. "I noticed you've got a gun on you now," she said, having noticed the faint bulge of the gun against the small of his back.

"It's been locked away, but lately it's spent a lot more time out of the safe."

She quietly pondered that. What the hell had she gotten herself into?

Alfred noticed her anxiety as he opened the door for her. Coming around the car, he got into the driver's seat and asked wryly, "Tempted to back out yet?"

"No," Margot replied. She'd been looking through the window, giving the apartment building one last once-over, but now she looked at Alfred with a fixed smile. "Not until I'm dead."

"Let's try to avoid that, shall we?" he murmured with a flat smile of his own. But he wasn't making any promises. Not after he'd seen the way Bruce's promise to Karen had shattered.

* * *

Bruce was waiting for them back at the manor. He approached Alfred as Margot took her things up to her room. Even the boy noticed the rifle case, his keen eyes following it until Margot had disappeared around a corner.

"I need to go into the city."

Alfred paused, his hand lifted to hang the key to the Bentley on its hook. "We just came back from the city, Master B," he said with a hint of exasperation. "And it's late."

"Even so, I need to go."

"What for, if I may be so bold as to inquire?"

"I've been poring over documents all day, and I have nothing to show for it. Meanwhile, Strange knows we're closing in on him—he's probably covering everything up right now—and Galavan's all over the news—"

"Yes," interrupted Alfred in a stern tone, "running free somewhere in Gotham. So forgive me, Master B, if I don't leap up to take you into the city tonight."

Bruce's brow furrowed, and his eyes had that unmistakable stubborn glint in them. "Alfred, I highly doubt that—"

Exhausted already, and wearied by the boy's protests, which seemed as if they could continue interminably, Alfred did something that rarely happened, at least rarely enough that it startled Bruce.

He lost his temper.

"Just wait one bloody moment, will you?" he roared. He inhaled deeply, his jaw set stubbornly forward, and in the shocked silence that followed, he amended in a calmer voice that was no less stern, "Wait, Master B. That's all I'm asking. Wait until morning and I'll take you then. There's no need for you to take unnecessary risks that could jeopardize the success of your mission."

The two men, one young and energetic, the other older and experienced, stared at each other in silence until they seemed to reach an impasse. Then Bruce, not lowering his gaze, nodded his head curtly. "Very well, Alfred. First thing tomorrow."

Alfred also nodded. "Good. Now why don't I fix you something to eat?"

"I've already eaten," said Bruce calmly. "Shouldn't you be upstairs with Margot? You must be dying to…" at this the boy paused, brow furrowed, and continued carefully, "…help her unpack."

Alfred eyed the boy with great suspicion. "Are you sure you're not trying to distract me so that you can sneak away?"

Bruce allowed a small smile to cross his face. "Alfred, you worry too much." Seeing the doubt that lingered, he added reassuringly, "I promise I won't leave. I see the sense in waiting. We'll leave tomorrow, first thing."

The man nodded. He wasn't sure how, but he could tell that Bruce wasn't lying. "Very well, Master B. As you wish. I believe I will go help Margot…unpack."

Still smiling, Bruce turned away and replied, "I'll be in the study. Try not to stay up too late."

Alfred grumbled under his breath, but said nothing more. He already didn't like this new teenage side of Bruce.

Margot had already unpacked most of her belongings and was now folding her clothes—which she'd simply shoved into her backpack—in neat piles on the bed. She glanced up and noticed Alfred in the doorway.

"What did Bruce want?" she asked with mild curiosity as he entered the room.

"To go into the city," Alfred responded wearily. "I suspect he intends to enlist Selina Kyle's help to find any dirt Strange may be hiding."

Her brow rose. "Tonight? With Galavan out running around? Gotham's not even safe on normal nights."

"I managed to dissuade him. We'll leave first thing in the morning."

Margot considered him for a moment. "Then you really should get some rest." She paused and asked suspiciously, "You're not worried that Bruce is going to try to sneak out, are you?"

Alfred shook his head. "No. He sees the sense in waiting."

Margot sighed as she shook a shirt loose from the other clothes and began to fold it. "I can see why you're exhausted. Keeping track of that kid alone is more than a full-time job."

He smiled wanly. "Well now that you're here, hopefully I won't have to do it alone."

She glanced up, echoing his smile. "Whoa, I'm just the gardener," she teased.

Waiting for her to finish folding the shirt, he pulled her closer, looking into those hazel eyes that always seemed full of mischief. "You've never been just the gardener," he told her, right before he kissed her.

It had been a long time since he'd kissed her like that, pulling her into him, pressing his entire body into hers, feeling her bend just a little under the force of his kiss. One of her hands clenched the lapel of his coat, while the other slid up the back of his neck and into his hair, sending a shiver down his spine.

"Watch it," she whispered as they parted, her voice giving him goosebumps. "I'm starting to get the impression that you've given up sleeping altogether. Aren't you too tired to be doing this sort of thing?"

"Too tired?" he inquired incredulously. "What, and I'm suddenly ninety years old, I suppose?"

Margot smiled broadly and mildly replied, "Well, you certainly have a lot of gray hair—"

"I'll have you know that before Master Bruce came along, I had nary a gray hair on me."

"Right," she agreed with a sagacious nod, "And I suppose the fact that that was nearly fourteen years ago has nothing to do with it."

"All right, you," he growled. "Come here."

It certainly had been a long time, Alfred thought to himself, kissing away that teasing smile of hers, picking her up and depositing her on the bed, scattering the neat piles of clothes as he joined her, determined to make up for lost time.

Margot, apparently thinking the same thing, murmured, "Looks like we have some making up to do."

Alfred said nothing, but he still managed to make his agreement very clear.

He'd dreamt of her while she'd been away, remembering the feeling of her body against his, her smooth skin under his hands, warm and supple. But he'd forgotten the way his fingertips could raise goosebumps on her flesh, the way she watched him through half-lidded eyes as he touched her, uttering soft, pleasant sounds.

She gasped softly, her breath hitching for a moment when he buried his face in her neck and pressed his lips to that slight curve where jaw and ear and neck met. A favorite place of hers, and of his, considering the way she arched up into him, rubbing the front of her body against his.

God, he'd missed her.

For all of the good intentions he'd had, wanting this to be one of those memorable nights, Alfred didn't have the time or the endurance to waste on little pleasantries. Margot was finally there, in the flesh, warm and welcoming, with a hint of teasing, just enough to drive him mad for her. He'd be lucky if he lasted through the next few minutes.

Margot sensed his urgency and seemed, surprisingly, to be in agreement. Basics now, simple and unadorned. Romance could wait until later.

He noticed that, in the course of undressing her, she still seemed a little hesitant. She tried to hide her anxiety, flashing a smile up at Alfred, but he saw through it. Her legs, or more accurately the scars that disfigured them, were an obvious point of discomfort to her. He'd told her more than once that he didn't care; Margot was still pretty and pleasant to look at otherwise. Hell, she was beautiful to him, and once her trousers came off, he was usually too far gone to be distracted by the scars.

He'd always had to whisper something encouraging to her by this point, and tonight was no different, except perhaps that this time he held the card that could trump all doubts.

"Margot," he murmured, meeting her eyes with his, sensing the hesitance in her gaze. Sure he had her undivided attention, he told her firmly, "I love you."

Her unease melted away instantly, like snow he'd seen turn instantly to vapor, steaming under a hot morning sun. Unable to hide her grin, she kissed him soundly and replied in kind, "I love you, too."

It was over in a matter of minutes.

* * *

Alfred was asleep. He'd tried his best to stay awake, to coddle Margot, to kiss her, to show her all the gentleness he kept hidden during the day, but he was exhausted, and she couldn't have kept him awake, even if she'd wanted to.

She watched him in the dim light from a lamp on the bedside table, knowing it wouldn't disturb him. His eyes were closed, his expression peaceful except for the slight furrowing between his eyebrows. Even in his sleep, Alfred seemed concerned. It was his natural state of being, Margot supposed.

Still wide awake, Margot tried to relax and join the man in sleep, but she couldn't get comfortable. She'd slept through most of the day, and now her body was ready to be awake and active, despite the late hour. Her mind raced, not content with watching Alfred sleep, which was actually quite boring.

So Margot rose and dressed herself to make the rounds through the manor. Bruce was already in bed, though probably not sleeping if the light under his doorway was anything to judge by. She checked the windows upstairs, except for those in the master suite. Those doors hadn't been opened in ages, and the rooms behind them sat undisturbed. Margot wasn't going to be the one who disturbed them.

Downstairs, she checked more windows, locked the doors, and cleaned up after Bruce's attempt to make himself dinner—some pasta with sauce and vegetables. Tasting a bit of the leftovers curiously, Margot realized that it wasn't all that bad. He'd come a long way since the days when he couldn't cut a straight slice of bread.

Finally satisfied that the manor was secure, Margot made her way back upstairs, hoping that by now she'd be ready to sleep. She passed by one of the windows and caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye. Freezing, she stood in the dark window, her sharp gaze fixed outside.

Her eyes scanned the grounds, darting from place to place. She never fixed her gaze on one spot for too long; she'd been trained to notice everything by keeping her eyes moving.

There—something stirred. Even as she saw it, however, Margot realized it was nothing more than a tree branch swaying slightly in the breeze. Other branches on other trees swayed as well. Doubtful, Margot still remained on alert for several more minutes, until she was certain that there was nobody outside.

She returned to her room, undressed, and joined Alfred once more. He didn't stir. Curling up beside him, she closed her eyes and forced herself to sleep. Her body, faced with the prospect of sleep or a long night of absolute boredom, finally chose sleep.

But it was a fitful, restless sleep, and Margot was exhausted by morning.


	39. Chapter Thirty-Eight

_Major spoilers for episode 2.20-Unleashed. Enjoy!_

* * *

 _"Sleep don't visit, so I choke on sun, and the days blur into one,  
And the backs of my eyes hum with things I've never done…  
_ _All my nightmares escape my head.  
_ _Bar the door, please don't let them in.  
_ _Peel the scars from off my back—I don't need them anymore.  
_ _You can throw them out or keep them in your mason jars.  
_ _I've come home."_

 _"Welcome Home" –Radical Face_

* * *

Chapter Thirty-Eight:

Margot woke to the smell of food and blearily opened her eyes, only to find Alfred standing at the end of the bed, smiling at her with a tray in his hands. It was covered in food. Rubbing her eyes, she sat up and asked, "What are you doing here? I thought you'd be in the city with Bruce."

"I was," the man answered calmly. "He's still there, no doubt with Selina."

"And you let him go alone?"

Alfred grimaced a little, trying to hide it behind a sigh. "It seems Master Bruce can handle himself without his rickety old butler to help."

Margot sensed some pain in that statement. She hadn't meant to sound accusatory, but it seemed she'd touched a nerve. Feeling badly, she accepted the food he offered her and attempted to distract him.

"Well," she stated, cutting a triangular piece off of a crepe and dragging it through the savory sauce before she stuffed it into her mouth. It was good. Swallowing, she continued, "Looks like you have some free time, then. Why don't you join me for breakfast?"

She smiled and offered Alfred a place beside her on the bed. He seemed reluctant.

"There's no way I'll be able to eat all of this," she told him, indicating the plate of food in front of her, adding invitingly, "Have some of this orange, at least."

Alfred raised his brow, knowing full well that Margot was lying. She could eat everything on that plate and probably a second serving. But he appreciated the sentiment.

He slowly took a seat on the edge of the bed and accepted a few orange slices from her.

They ate quietly for a few minutes before Margot rose and stretched. "While I have you here alone," she began, "there's something I think I should show you."

Alfred waited, watching dubiously as she reached into the backpack she'd tucked under the bed and drew out a small metal case. Opening it, she turned it towards him and exposed the contents to him.

It was a pistol, well-used and worn, but decently maintained. Alfred glanced up with the beginnings of a reproachful look on his face. He'd expressed his reserve for letting her bring a handgun into the manor before. Still, he could hardly be upset if she'd purchased it while she'd been gone, with no plans of returning.

"It's seen a lot of use, but it's reliable enough," she explained quietly, hoping that he wouldn't be too angry.

Instead, he seemed more resigned. "Reliable enough," he echoed skeptically. "I suppose that's what the man at the secondhand shop told you," he replied wearily.

Margot shook her head as she corrected him. "It was a veteran down at the VA. And no, I didn't take his word for it. We went down to the range and he let me shoot it."

Alfred frowned and considered the handgun again. "Well," he finally said in a slow, thoughtful voice, "it would seem hypocritical of me to tell you to toss the thing."

"Yes," she replied firmly, giving him a warning look that let him know how she would feel should he ask her to discard it. Pausing, she then suggested hopefully, "Why don't we go out and shoot a few practice rounds? You with your peashooter and me with mine."

He reached into the case and withdrew the gun, inspecting it. It was heavy. The frame was a classic .45 caliber, stainless steel Colt 1911 model, with worn wooden grips. "Hardly a peashooter," he commented. Handing it back to her, he shook his head reluctantly and informed her, "I need to stay close, in case Master B calls."

She nodded understandingly and started to dress. "Right. Well I'm going out for some much needed practice." Looking up at Alfred, she inquired, "Would you mind if I went into those hills down past the south grounds?"

Alfred nodded. The hills were quite a ways from the manor, behind the wooded area on the far side of the south grounds. He mused, "They're part of the estate, so you won't be shooting into anybody else's backyard." He saw her move to pick up the rifle case and frowned. The rifle had a much longer range than the pistol. One bullet could travel well over a mile. "But for God's sake, aim away from the house!"

"I am a trained sniper," she retorted. "I think I know what I'm doing." Still, she couldn't resist teasing him a little. "Just stay away from the windows and you'll be perfectly safe."

Despite the bad joke, Alfred actually did feel a little safer as he heard the distant gunshots over the next hour, first the soft pop of the pistol, and then the sharper crack of the rifle, knowing that most—probably all—of those shots were likely hitting the intended target. It was certainly comforting to have a sniper on hand. He didn't realize that he'd think the very same thing again that evening, when he received news of an unexpected and most unwelcome guest.

* * *

"You're more to me than just a guardian, Alfred. You're my friend."

Despite the timing, which couldn't have been worse, Bruce's words echoed in the butler's mind, weaving in and out of the plans he was carefully forming in his head. He'd known it already, of course, but to hear the boy finally say it… Well, it was about bloody time.

Still, there would be plenty of opportunity to dwell on that later, if they survived. That was the top priority, and that's why Alfred called Margot down from her room, which she had been reorganizing since dinner.

"What's wrong?" she inquired, catching sight not only of Bruce and Alfred's expressions, but also the gun in Alfred's hands.

"Jim Gordon just called and said that Galavan is likely coming here."

Margot's face blanched at the news, but she didn't interrupt as Alfred continued, "Master B and I are going to lock up the house, but it'd be useful to have eyes on the outside." He shot her a pointed look.

"I'm on it," Margot replied quickly, reaching for her pistol, which Alfred noticed she'd kept tucked in her belt against the small of her back.

"Don't do anything reckless!" Alfred called after her as she disappeared through the window.

Margot waved the comment off and soon found herself in the near-complete darkness of the grounds.

She walked slowly and placed her footsteps carefully to cause the least amount of noise, her senses all on alert. Fortunately, this was when her training became very useful. As a sniper, she'd been taught to move stealthily. As she walked, she cast surreptitious glances between the wall that surrounded the estate, the ground, and the manor. She could see as one by one the lights were doused and the curtains shut as Bruce and Alfred closed up the house. The lack of extra light meant that she would have to rely solely upon the wan moonlight as she kept a sharp eye out for any sign of intrusion.

It was that sharp gaze that noticed the footprints in the soft soil near a row of shrubbery that wound around towards the back of the manor. Crouching down to investigate them, she noted that they were fresh and deep, created by a relatively tall person, probably male. He seemed to be moving quickly, headed straight towards the east wing of the manor.

Cursing, Margot ran towards the house, hoping to arrive there and sound the warning before the intruder could break in. Unfortunately, she never thought that the man she was pursuing might be waiting unseen behind a shrub, and then catch her in the head with something heavy and hard.

Which is exactly what happened.

Reeling, Margot raised her pistol and managed to squeeze off a couple of rounds, but it was difficult to see with her head spinning and blood dripping into her eyes. The figure struck at her with a foot, catching her squarely in the gut. She stumbled backwards and nearly lost her footing. Steel glinted in the moonlight, and Margot noticed that her attacker was wielding some sort of sword—he must have caught her with the pommel as she ran past. The blade sang through the air as it came down towards her, and she realized how lucky she was that he hadn't come at her pointy end first.

She threw herself out of the way of the sword, tumbling onto the ground. She rolled to the side, felt the blade catch in the turf inches from her shoulder, and took the chance to squeeze off two more rounds. The man grunted and stumbled. Margot emptied her clip in his direction, trying to blink the blood from her eyes as his footsteps receded quickly.

Getting to her feet, Margot quickly took stock of her injuries, wiped her eyes clear, and reloaded the pistol before following her attacker. She was sure now that it was Galavan. Funny, though, she had never thought of him as much of a fighter.

She tracked him towards the manor, but she had difficulty locating him once she reached it. He moved so much faster than her with her limp, and he was behaving erratically. She assumed he would have gone through the nearest window or door, but all the windows on the ground floor seemed undisturbed.

A crash sounded from above suddenly, and Margot looked upward—the one direction she'd forgotten to look. There he'd gone, right through a second-story window. He must have scaled the building to reach it.

She growled and dashed for the nearest window, choosing to smash through it instead of trying to unlock it. Though she held her arms defensively in front of her face, she could feel the glass biting through her skin as she went through it and tumbled into the room.

Margot stood unsteadily, her leg protesting painfully, her head throbbing, her eyes stinging as more blood trailed into them. She oriented herself quickly and forced herself through the door and out into the corridor. Bruce and Alfred would likely be in the study, she reasoned, recalling the secret entrance behind the fireplace that led to the cavernous room below the manor. Sealed inside that room, they'd be safe from any attack.

She only hoped they were already there.

Three sharp gunshots pierced the still air, shattering Margot's hopes. She ran towards the sound, heard more gunshots, then shouting, then crashing. It all seemed to be coming from direction of the study. Margot cursed the architects who'd designed such a massive house as she hastened towards the room, wondering if she'd make it in time.

She recalled a similar incident, when the manor had been under attack by the assassins hired to dispose of Cat. Suddenly her mind flooded with images. Mr. Harrison, dead in the shrubbery. Gunshots. The panic and bile that had risen in her throat as she'd wondered if everyone else was dead as well. Finding Alfred with blood pouring down his arm. More gunshots. The acrid smell of something burning. Singed clothes, burnt flesh. Helicopters whirring above. The _taptaptap_ of rapid gunfire. A woman in black, turning, reaching towards her, only to explode in a pillar of light and heat—

Margot stumbled, her breath coming in short, agitated gasps. Oh God, she was having a panic attack. She tried to shake herself out of it, but her attempts only made it worse. She could barely force herself to move. One thing kept her moving forward, despite the panic. She had to help Alfred and Bruce. She had to protect them.

Finally, she lurched through the door to the study, only to find it empty. Debris littered the floor, and there were signs of a struggle, but not bodies. Her eyes lit on the broken window across the room. Heart in her throat, Margot ran towards it, sure she'd find somebody out there, lying dead in the flowers outside.

Glancing through the window, she caught sight of Alfred lying prone on the ground, and felt her knees go weak. For a moment, she feared the worst.

Then the man groaned and shifted, shaking his head slowly as he sat up.

"Damn it, Alfred," she gasped breathlessly, tumbling through the broken window. "Are you all right?"

"Where the hell were you?" he growled irritably, trying to get to his feet and wincing as he did so.

"The bastard ambushed me, all right?" she growled back, reaching out to help him.

He merely waved her away. "We have to find Bruce."

"You stay put," she insisted, catching sight of the blood that soaked through the left leg of his trousers. "You can hardly walk." Racking the slide of her pistol back, she added darkly, "I'll take care of Galavan."

Alfred held her back with a hand on her arm. "That pistol won't do you any good," he told her. "He's got some sort of armor on. Where's your rifle?"

Biting back a curse, Margot remembered that she'd left it upstairs. Carrying a concealed pistol around all day was easy. A rifle was less convenient. "New plan," she said. "You find Bruce. If Galavan is there, buy me some time. He may be wearing armor, but even Kevlar can't stop a .300 Win Mag slug at point blank range."

Alfred nodded and Margot climbed back through the window, feeling the jagged edges of the window cut at her.

She moved as quickly as she could, reaching the case just as she heard a car engine rev up, followed by a loud crash and tires squealing across the pavement below. Alarmed and wondering what the hell was happening, Margot didn't try to rush herself, though her mind screamed at her fingers to move faster as she readied her rifle. It wouldn't do a damn bit of good if she merely fumbled around in a panic. Finally she clicked the last round into the magazine, jammed it into place, and hobbled toward the source of the sounds.

She knew instinctively that she had no time to get outside, so she went to one of the windows that overlooked the driveway and instantly took in the scene. She saw Bruce on his knees, Galavan raising the blade above his head, saw the man stagger as bullets buried themselves deep into his torso. He stumbled, turning to face the new threat.

Jim Gordon.

A stab of relief shot through Margot as the man approached, bearing down on Galavan, emptying his clip into the attacker, who fell lifelessly to the ground. She leaned against the window and sighed with relief, unable to tear her eyes from the scene. Soon Alfred had joined Bruce and Gordon, and they shakily examined one another and exchanged a few words that were too distant and too quiet for Margot to hear.

Then, to her horror, Margot caught a glimpse of movement behind them. Galavan's prone figure was suddenly turning, rising, his hand going for the sword. She automatically reached for her rifle, peered into her scope, and sighted it on the man. But from her position, he was too close behind the others, and she couldn't get a clear shot without risking one of them. An idea struck her, one of those foolish and dangerous ideas. Aiming upwards, she squeezed the trigger.

The bullet shattered the glass of the window and soared well above the scene below, posing no threat, but the sound echoed with startling clarity into the night. Its message was clear: the danger wasn't over yet.

While the others glanced back at the manor in surprise, Bruce noticed the figure first, pointing with a shaking finger. Gordon and Alfred whirled simultaneously, the latter stepping protectively in front of the boy while the former raised his gun and advanced on the attacker.

Margot hoped that this time Gordon would manage to place a bullet directly between the assailant's eyes, or else step out of the way and give her a chance. She wouldn't disappoint.

But then something very unexpected happened. Another figure stepped out of the shadows behind Galavan, framed in the ornate gateway. It looked like…

Penguin?

Before she had time to wonder what the hell he was doing there, she caught sight of his friend, Butch, who seemed to have what looked suspiciously like a rocket launcher in tow. Gordon, Bruce, and Alfred all dived for cover, and Galavan went up in a pillar of fire and smoke, pieces of him littering the driveway.

Even as relief swept over her, Margot didn't envy Alfred the job of tidying up that particular mess. Then she realized with gut-wrenching dread that technically the driveway was part of the grounds and therefore her responsibility.

Still, she couldn't help but feel a twinge of respect for Penguin, that strange little man who had once irked her so much. She'd seen a particular nastiness in his eyes before, but she'd never thought much of it. Now she had to admit that he knew how to get things done.

Then, as quickly as he'd appeared, Penguin was gone, leaving the others to face the aftermath alone. Margot, seeing that he'd departed, decided she ought to regroup with the others.

As she descended hurriedly out onto the driveway, rifle still in hand, she reminded herself not to get on Penguin's bad side…provided she wasn't already on it.

She limped toward Bruce and Alfred, meeting them both with a grin of relief. Alfred jerked his chin at her rifle and cast a warning glance in Gordon's direction. Gordon wasn't a detective anymore, and the case of the mysterious sniper assassin had never been under his investigations anyway, but it never hurt to be careful.

Before Margot could hide it, however, the man had noticed her, his eyes riveting on the weapon.

"Was that your shot?" he inquired tersely, obviously talking about the warning shot.

"Couldn't think of a better way to warn you," she replied with a shrug.

He considered her with a frown for a moment before nodding his head. "Nice shooting."

She couldn't tell if there was some sarcasm in his voice or not, and she opened her mouth to inform him that he'd been in the way of her clear shot, and that she was a sniper, trained by the Marine Corps to be a deadly assassin. But as soon as the thought crossed her mind, she pushed it away, realizing that that was exactly what she shouldn't say.

Instead, she simply smiled wanly and shrugged once more.

"Well, I'd better get on the horn with Bullock. He'll want to know about this." Looking them over, Gordon added, "I'll tell him to send over some medical help while he's at it." He stepped over a smoking shred of clothing and added quietly to himself, "I don't envy the poor bastard who has to clean up this mess."

As Gordon retreated, already pulling out his phone, Margot glanced at Bruce and Alfred and realized that all three of them had some degree of injury. "Damn!" she muttered, glancing at the burnt spot on the ground where Galavan had once stood. It was still smoking. "Who thought one man could cause so much trouble? It took a motherfucking rocket to kill him!"

Alfred shot a reproving look at her. "Language," he hissed, nodding his head at Bruce.

The other two protested simultaneously.

"Oh, like he hasn't—"

"Alfred, I'm perfectly aware—"

"All right, all right!" Alfred cut in over the top of them. "Quiet, the pair of you. Now," he continued once they were silent, "At best we have twenty minutes before this place is swarming with cozzers and medics, so why don't we take advantage of the remaining peace we have and pop inside for some tea?"

Bruce and Margot exchanged a glance before nodding.

"I'll take a splash of whiskey in mine," Margot stated.

"I was planning on one of those myself," Alfred replied, wincing and holding his leg as they limped side by side back to the manor. "Actually," he amended gruffly, "I may forget the tea altogether and just take the whiskey."

Margot nodded her agreement.

"Someday I'll be twenty-one," Bruce sighed wistfully.

"There's a bottle of Nyquil in the back of the medicine cabinet," Margot suggested helpfully.

Bruce pretended to consider it for a moment, while Alfred seemed less than amused. The boy broke down into a short peal of laughter. "Don't worry, Alfred," he reassured the butler. "If I wanted to drink, there's plenty of real liquor that's just as easily accessible."

"Oh, that's comforting," Alfred retorted.

Margot grinned, simply relieved that they were all still alive. She tried not to think about anything beyond how she would spend the next twenty minutes. She doubted that tonight was to be the last of their deadly encounters.


	40. Chapter Thirty-Nine

_"Oh, angel sent from up above,  
_ _You know you make my world light up.  
_ _When I was down, when I was hurt,  
_ _You came to lift me up.  
_ _Life is a drink, and love's a drug.  
_ _Oh, now I think I must be miles up.  
_ _When I was a river, dried up,  
_ _You came to rain a flood."_

 _"Hymn for the Weekend" –Coldplay (ft. Beyoncé)_

* * *

Chapter Thirty-Nine:

Chamomile tea had been nice. Chamomile tea with a splash of bourbon better. Then Margot had chased down a couple of ibuprofen with a few fingers of bourbon minus the chamomile. Irresponsible behavior? Probably. Definitely. But at least the throbbing in her head had dulled to a numb ache. In fact, she felt pretty good, all bandaged up and bundled underneath no less than three blankets in bed.

It had been at least an hour since they'd finished their bourbon and tea, been subjected to prodding policemen and treated by the EMTs that accompanied them. An hour since they'd seen everybody off, bidden quiet goodnights to each other, and retired to bed separately. Margot had been lying there for the past several minutes in utter silence. She was just dozing, unable to really sleep, when a tall figure darkened her doorway.

Alfred.

"What brings you here so late?" she inquired, trying not to sound too excited. Secretly, she'd been hoping that he'd come, at least to keep her company if nothing else. But as the minutes had passed, she'd slowly been losing hope. The only reason she hadn't just gone to his room was the fact that the wound to his leg was no small scrape, and she'd assumed that he'd want to be left alone. A weak smile crossed her face as she teased, "Surely you're not expecting a romantic encounter of any sort."

"Hardly," Alfred retorted gruffly as he limped across the room, supporting his weight heavily on a cane. He sat gingerly on the edge of her bed, groaning softly. "I tried to sleep," he admitted, "but my mind seemed bent on contemplating my own mortality. I thought if I was going to be awake, I'd be better off with some company."

Margot nodded understandingly. She hadn't been able to sleep either, thanks to a blend of residual anxiety and pain. Her wounds were mostly superficial—a bump and a gash on her head that required nothing more than a couple of stitches, a few cuts and scrapes that were fixed with alcohol wipes and bandages, and a very sore leg. Not as sore as Alfred's, though.

"How's the leg?" she asked, nodding towards his injured appendage, noticing the way he favored it, wincing as he lifted it onto the bed and reclined beside her.

"Feels like butter under a hot knife. I can barely walk on the bloody thing." He glanced at her, eyeing the bandage on her head. "And you? How's that crack on the nut?"

Her head pounded in answer. "Throbbing, but manageable."

Alfred nodded and fell quiet, seeming quite content to simply sit there with her in silence.

As Margot stared up at the dark ceiling, arms crossed behind her head, she got the distinct impression that Alfred was watching her. She didn't acknowledge him in any way, waiting to see if he had more to say, or if he was simply going to stare quietly.

When he did speak, it wasn't at all what she'd expected to hear, not after that evening's previous events.

"How many of these bloody blankets do you have on? Can you breathe under there?"

She felt him shift as he tried to navigate his way under the covers, and could hardly stifle a laugh. "I was cold."

"Yeah, well I'm here now. Shall we discard some of this dead weight, or are we both going to bake in this oven of a bed?"

Margot didn't try hiding her laugh this time. "All right," she assented, "but come here. With the blankets gone, it's your responsibility to keep me warm."

Not a problem," he assured her.

She scooted closer to him and waited for him to toss a couple of the blankets aside before he put his arms around her. He contemplated her quietly for a few moments, a hand ghosting over the side of her face, tracing one of the shallow scrapes on her cheek.

"Why'd you forgive me so quickly?" he inquired in a tired whisper. The ever-present hoarseness in his voice was more prominent than ever as he broke the silence. "Why'd you come back?"

Margot didn't answer at first, noticing the worried lines that permanently creased his brow, the curious way his wide blue eyes regarded her from across his pillow. Ever since she'd returned, they hadn't really discussed the matter further. He'd apologized, and she'd forgiven him, and that was it. She wasn't sure she even had an answer, but it wouldn't do to say nothing at all.

After a moment, she replied, "I guess I was still hoping to give this another chance." Sensing a hint of dissatisfaction from him, she added, "While I was in the city, I could hardly get you out of my head. I worry about you, you know. Even when I was furious I still worried."

"Come here to protect me then, did you?" he said with a wan smile.

She let out a quiet laugh. "Something like that." Her amusement faded and she continued in a more serious tone, "Alfred, I've never been happier than when I'm here. Even when maniacs break in and threaten to kill us all."

"That's the part that worries me."

"Well, of course it's dangerous," she agreed. "We all knew that, especially since Bruce's hobbies seem to include digging into uncomfortable secrets and irritating powerful and deadly people. But pursuing the truth is something Bruce needs to do. You've got to admire his tenacity."

"Oh, I do," Alfred reassured her calmly. "It's just that I question whether you ought to be risking your life for this."

Margot nodded slowly. "You don't think I feel the same way about you?" she inquired carefully. "You'd give your life for Bruce."

"Well it's expected of me," he explained. "I made a promise to his parents…"

"And you love him," she pointed out gently.

"Yes. As if he were my own son," Alfred asserted with quiet ferocity.

"Well I love you both," she stated, evenly meeting his gaze. "It would kill me if I lost either of you. But I'd rather be here, risking the pain of losing you, risking my own life even, than to leave and lose you for sure just because I'm afraid."

A slow smile spread across the man's features, and he cupped the side of her face in a hand, his skin warm against hers. "Well, for the record, I'm glad you're here," he admitted.

She smiled back. "So am I."

* * *

Margot woke late, not surprised when all that she found on the other side of her bed was an empty impression roughly the size and shape of a middle-aged butler. Sitting up abruptly, she fell back almost immediately when the room started to spin around her. She blamed the interesting cocktail of painkillers and booze that she'd had before bed.

After a moment, she tried to sit up again, slowly. This time, the room didn't spin quite as much, the movement more like the rocking of a ship. Margot could manage that.

Head pounding, she found a robe and slipped it on before making her way downstairs, her feet padding a soft, uneven rhythm on the cold floor. Nobody was in the kitchen, but there was a bagel on the table, already halved, with a collection of toppings placed delicately on each half. An empty mug rested beside it, and a glance in the coffee pot proved that there was some left for her. It was still fresh, barely at the stage between hot and warm.

Margot only filled the cup halfway before pulling down an open bottle of bourbon from one of the cupboards and splashing some of it into her cup.

Warm sunlight cascaded from the windows, a yellow glow that made her feel drowsy, despite the coffee. Margot had hoped to work the grounds today, but her headache wasn't fading, and she thought that maybe some painkillers and a quick nap would help her to feel better by the afternoon.

Standing, she swilled the rest of her coffee, then took a swig of bourbon straight from the bottle, just for good measure, and started the long return toward her room, where she was sure she could scrounge up a few painkillers.

Before she made it there, however, something through the window caught her eye, and she stopped to peer out onto the grounds. The scorch marks in the driveway from last night were still obvious, but most of the debris—previously known as Theo Galavan, aka Azrael—had been taken by the investigators.

"Thank God for that," Margot snorted softly to herself. She hadn't been looking forward to cleaning that up.

That wasn't what had drawn her gaze, however. There were two cars in the driveway. One she recognized. It was Gordon's. The other was unfamiliar.

Frowning, Margot changed plans, turning around and making her way back down the stairs and towards the study. As she approached, she heard voices. Bruce and Alfred.

Just as she reached the door, Bruce stepped from it, smiling wanly at her and offering a quiet greeting and farewell as he passed. "Hello, Margot. Goodbye."

Caught off guard, she didn't have time to reply other than to grunt a curious, "Huh."

In the study, Alfred stood near the desk, shoulders slumped, face drawn. He was still using a cane for support, Margot noticed. She wondered vaguely if it was to take the strain off of his leg, or if it was helping him bear the weight of his tumultuous thoughts and emotions.

He looked even worse than she felt.

She wisely didn't mention that, though. Instead, she simply asked, "What's going on?"

Alfred's piercing gaze swept over her for a moment before he sighed and groaned, "Bloody lunacy it is."

"Well that's a given," she joked in a lighthearted attempt to raise the man's spirits. "Any particular kind of lunacy?"

A weary shrug prefaced the man's brief explanation. "It seems young Master Bruce sent Selina Kyle to Arkham to dig up anything she could on Strange. It was a serious lack of good judgement, in my opinion, and she has yet to return. Master B left with Jim Gordon and Lucius Fox to rescue her and investigate further."

Margot furrowed her brow. "And they didn't invite us?" It seemed strange to her that Bruce would overlook his two staunchest defenders.

"Well I'm no good with my bum leg, and you—well, you've got a bum leg too, haven't you? Not to mention that great bloody conk on your head and the fact that you smell like a portside pub the morning after."

It was obvious that Alfred was upset about being left behind as well, but Margot thought he was going a little overboard with the insults. Offending her wasn't going to help him feel better. In fact, it was a quick way to provoke her into giving him two bum legs instead of one.

She didn't mention that. She simply gave him a flat glare. "This leg hasn't stopped me before. Maybe I should go with them."

But Alfred was already shaking his head. "Now wait a moment. I just tore a strip off Master B for involving Miss Kyle in this. I can't turn around and ask you to get involved. It'd be dangerous and I'd look like a bloody hypocrite."

"Look, you're not asking me. I'm volunteering," Margot protested. "There's a difference."

Alfred remained firm. "Absolutely not. They have a plan. You can't help by charging in after them." Seeing that she still seemed antsy, he took a faltering step forward and held her shoulder with a hand. "Margot." He waited for her to meet his gaze. "I know you're worried. You don't think I'm positively itching to be there, protecting that boy? Hell, I did all but threaten to stick him on an airplane. In fact…no, I do believe I did threaten that. The point is, I remembered something that you said last night, and I believe you were right to say it. Master B does need to pursue the truth. His father would be very proud of the man he's becoming, and I'll be damned if I stand in the way of that."

Margot hesitated, bowing her head and nodding after a moment. Alfred gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze, adding reassuringly, "Now, that's not to say I haven't taken precautions. If we don't hear from them within the hour, I'm going straight to the police."

She couldn't keep a scoff from escaping her throat. "Like they can do anything. If they could, they would have already."

Alfred shot her a warning look, indicating that he'd brook no more argument. Margot was only an average tactician, having barely scraped by in most of her tactical training, but she knew enough to pick her battles and this wasn't one of them.

Although she was pretty sure that with his leg injured, she could take the man.

Pretty sure.

If she kicked his cane out from under him.

Alfred caught her eyeing the cane. "Don't even think about it," he growled.

* * *

The hour passed slowly, dragging on like eternity, though both Margot and Alfred tried to distract themselves. The distractions didn't work, a common occurrence in such uneasy situations. By the last fifteen minutes, they didn't even pretend to try any longer, simply sitting by the phone, waiting and watching the clock.

Finally, Alfred stood. "It's been too long," he announced. "I'm going."

Margot also got to her feet, swaying a little as she steadied herself. "I'll go with you." Her head still ached, but that wouldn't stop her from helping any way that she could.

Alfred turned on her. "No. You need to stay in case they try to call the manor. In case they return."

She frowned. "You're not just trying to keep me out of the danger, are you?" she inquired accusingly.

He looked at her and shrugged, not even bothering to hide the truth. "Of course I am, luv." Sighing, he added, "There's no sign that anything's gone wrong. They may simply be unable to contact us at the moment. But it's best to be cautious. If anything is wrong, I'll let you know immediately. In the meantime, I need you here in case Master B returns."

Margot hated the idea, but she could see the sense in it. "All right," she gave in, adding hurriedly, "but if you're not back by this evening, I'm coming after you."

Alfred smiled wanly and nodded. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

* * *

More waiting.

Margot hated waiting.

As a sniper, she'd been trained to wait for hours without moving more than a few inches. Her missions always required stealth, but most importantly, patience. Still, that was a different kind of waiting, the kind that usually kept her from being spotted by the enemy, the kind that saved her life.

This was entirely different. She was on the sidelines, kept out of play for safety's sake, unable to help. Waiting for the slim chance that Bruce might phone the manor, or simply show up safe and sound. Given the time that Alfred had been gone, she doubted that would happen.

The only thing that kept her there was the small chance that Bruce might call, that he might return, and Alfred would never forgive her—hell, she would never forgive herself—if she wasn't there. She had promised, and she wasn't about to break a promise to Alfred.

Still, it was anxious waiting, filled with restless pacing and muttering as she constantly shot glances at the phone on the desk, while also checking her own phone for messages.

Finally the sun disappeared below the horizon, and with it went any obligation Margot had to wait there. She'd told Alfred until evening, and that's exactly what she'd meant. So, hastening through the manor, Margot left, snatching her coat from the rack and throwing it on as she straddled her motorcycle.

She tried not to think of all the possible ways Bruce's plan could have gone wrong, what could have happened to invoke such a dreadful silence that seemed to be stifling all communication. First Bruce hadn't made contact as planned, and then Alfred had failed to update Margot on the situation. Was something truly wrong?

Or had Margot simply been forgotten on the sidelines?

She went first to the station, only to learn that Alfred was not there. He'd gone with acting Captain Bullock and most of the police force to Arkham, leaving behind only a skeleton crew of disgruntled officers to man the station. When she pressed for details, all she received was a curt reminder that this was police business and that as a civilian, she wasn't privy to such information.

Well, she thought with determination, at least she knew where Arkham was.

It wasn't a long ride, but it seemed to take forever, with panicked thoughts of what she would find there flashing through her mind. What if Bruce had been hurt? Alfred? To have the police so involved, she feared a disaster of cataclysmic proportions.

At first, her fears seemed realized when she pulled up to find the gates of Arkham thrown open, the courtyard filled with patrol vehicles and milling police officers. But then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a familiar form crouched on top of a patrol car. Cat. As soon as she spotted the girl, it was easy for Margot to recognize Alfred and Bruce, who both stood nearby. They appeared to be relatively unharmed.

Her fear and alarm vanished in a flash of relief, which soon melted into irritation and anger as she dismounted from her bike and stormed over to them, ignoring the protests of several nearby officers.

"What the hell?" she shouted, satisfied to see the others start in guilty surprise as she approached. Bruce was nearest, and without warning she simply pulled him into a tight embrace, squeezing the breath from him and growling quietly, "I thought you were dead."

"As you can see, I'm perfectly all right," Bruce reassured her with a slightly nervous laugh. "We all are."

She loosened her grip on him and faced Alfred with a scowl. "I can see that," she responded darkly. "A call might have been nice," she added.

"Oi!" the butler protested, holding up the phone that was currently in one hand. "I was just about to ring you."

"Right. After the danger has passed, I see."

"It seems our young friends here had things mostly sorted by the time I arrived," Alfred explained, indicating Bruce and Cat. "Had you waited a few minutes longer, I could have saved you the trip over."

"Too late for that," Margot muttered, managing to stay stern for just a moment longer before a smile broke over her tired features. "Screw it, I'm just glad to see that you're all OK." And she limped to Alfred to give him the same tight, relieved embrace that she had given Bruce just moments before.

"Sure, hug the butler," groused Cat. "He barely got here in time to watch the cleanup."

Alfred seemed as if he was about to retort sarcastically when Gordon approached and called to Bruce, distracting them from the beginnings of a heated dispute.

The ex-detective nodded briefly to the others before he took the boy by the shoulder, his weary face grim.

Bruce looked up at him in curiosity, wondering what had drawn the ex-detective away from the clamor and milling confusion of the police as they tried to sort everything out.

"I have to go," he said enigmatically. "I might not see you for a while," he added apologetically, "but I'll try to stay in touch."

Margot frowned slightly, surprised by the announcement. She didn't profess to know the man well, but Gordon hadn't seemed like the kind of man who'd simply pick up and leave Gotham. Sure, there were those that ran away. She didn't blame them. She'd been one of them, at least for a while. But Gordon had promised to help Bruce find those responsible for his parents' deaths. Did his departure mean the deed had been accomplished?

She didn't think so, judging by Bruce's reaction. He also seemed a little surprised. "Where are you going?" he asked.

"I have to find Lee," the man explained, a pained expression crossing his face as he spoke.

"Lee", Margot assumed, seemed to be someone close to Gordon. A girlfriend, perhaps?

Alfred's response seemed to confirm her conjectures. "Right move, mate," the butler spoke up beside her, nodding his head in curt approval.

Margot glanced at him, head tilted, a questioning look in her eyes. "His fiancée," Alfred informed her under his breath. "Met her once." A wistful expression flickered over his face, and he added with a wry smile, "One look at those eyes and suddenly I was asking her to dinner. Don't know what came over me, really…" The man trailed off, meeting Margot's gaze. He cleared his throat hastily and quickly added in a whisper, "It was while you were out blowing mobsters' heads off. I didn't expect to see you again, and I most certainly didn't realize she was already taken."

"Comforting," Margot retorted dryly. She wasn't really bothered by the revelation, but she wasn't going to let him know that. She opened her mouth to press further, but was interrupted before she could speak.

"Chocolates," called Cat, as Gordon started to leave. The man turned to her with his brow furrowed in curiosity, and she shrugged uncomfortably. "Girls like chocolates."

Gordon emitted a soft laugh and smiled. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Hear that?" Margot whispered with a pointed look at Alfred, nudging the man gently with her elbow and slipping her hand into his.

The butler smiled, his blue eyes warm as he regarded her for a moment. He squeezed her hand, taking a few steps forward as he watched Gordon go.

"Well," he said to no one in particular, "there's a man who's got his priorities straight." Margot glanced questioningly at him, and he added in explanation, "The love of a good woman, and all that."

She saw the meaningful look in his gaze, felt the reassuring warmth of his hand around hers. For a moment, everything was right.

But Alfred wasn't one for maudlin moments, and soon he'd turned to Bruce. "Well, I hope you learned your lesson, Master Bruce. And that's the end of your adventures with the police, eh?"

Margot saw a familiar look creep over the boy's face. She'd seen the same expression when he'd come down from the roof not long after he'd lost his parents. Alfred had scolded him, demanding that he never return to the roof again. But Bruce's expression had betrayed him then, and it betrayed him now.

"There's a secret council, Alfred," Bruce hurriedly explained. "A secret council that runs everything in Gotham."

Alfred's face fell, his hopeful smile fading into the same grimace that Margot made when she was on the verge of vomiting. "Oh, bloody hell…" he began in an exhausted growl.

Bruce continued with even more energy, gaining momentum, "It's them that wanted me dead. We're so close, Alfred. We're so close to the ultimate truth."

"Oh, bloody hell." The butler was leaning heavily on his cane, his eyes rolled heavenwards, and he looked almost ready to faint with despair on the spot. He shot a desperate, pleading look at Cat, as if she were somehow responsible for this and in a position to talk Bruce down.

"Hey," she threw up her hands defensively, "don't look at me."

Margot quietly slipped an arm through Alfred's, squeezing gently. Mostly it was for encouragement, but also to be absolutely sure that the man wouldn't fall to the ground.

"Right," he finally uttered, unable to say anything else. "Right," he echoed to himself, trying to come to terms with what he'd just heard.

He shook himself loose and turned away, taking a few limping steps from them and staring off into the darkness. Behind her, Margot heard Cat whisper to Bruce, "The old man took it pretty well, I'd say."

"He'll probably be up all night, coming up with reasons why I shouldn't pursue the matter," Bruce responded dryly.

Margot scoffed quietly to herself, "I can already think of three or four myself." She didn't share her thoughts, though. Tonight at least, she'd rest well, knowing that one crisis had been averted, and the larger one looming on the horizon could be dealt with in the morning. Hopefully by then she and Alfred would both figure out how the hell they were going to survive this endless crusade with their sanity intact.

After giving Alfred a couple of moments alone, she approached, touching his shoulder gently. He didn't turn around, but he didn't send her away either.

"That boy will be the bloody death of me," he asserted hoarsely after a long silence.

"It seems that way," she agreed with a nod.

The man glanced at her, eyebrows raised. "Some help you are. You've defected to his side, haven't you?"

Margot laughed. "I've always been on his side. Be honest—so have you."

Alfred nodded slowly. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and drew her close. "I'm glad to have you here."

She smiled and leaned into him. "Glad to be here," she responded. "Now let's get home. I'm starving. Haven't eaten all day."

This drew a laugh from the man, and he seemed a little less morose as they turned and collected Bruce. Margot paused and glanced back at Cat, who was hanging back hesitantly.

"Hey," she called to the girl. "I brought my bike. You want a ride home?"

Cat grinned. "Only if we stop for food on the way."

"A girl after my own heart," Margot said with a nod of approval, beckoning the girl to follow her.

Terrible as the day had seemed, she had to admit that things could have turned out much worse. Margot supposed she should be grateful that they hadn't.


	41. Chapter Forty

_"'Cause nobody wants to be the last one there,  
'Cause everyone wants to feel like someone cares,  
Someone to love with my life in their hands:  
There's gotta be somebody for me like that.  
'Cause nobody wants to go it on their own,  
And everyone wants to know they're not alone.  
There's somebody else that feels the same somewhere,  
There's gotta be somebody for me out there."_

 _"Gotta Be Somebody" –Nickelback_

* * *

Chapter Forty:

Despite the comfort of cool sheets and warm arms wrapped around her, the dulling effect of the painkillers as they set in, a pleasantly full belly, and an overwhelming yet oddly soothing exhaustion, Margot couldn't sleep.

She stared at the ceiling, listening to the quiet, even breathing of the man beside her, unconsciously matching her own breathing to that rhythm as she turned over a single phrase in her mind, worrying it the way she might worry a stone in her hand.

 _The love of a good woman…_

She knew Alfred had meant it kindly, as a compliment even, but she couldn't get the words out of her head, and with every repetition they seemed less kind and increasingly more condemning.

Finally, unable to keep her distress bottled up any longer, she asked aloud, "Am I a good woman? Am I a good person?"

Alfred, for all intents and purposes, seemed to be sleeping, entirely unaware of her question. His eyes were still closed when Margot glanced at him, and he was still breathing low and even. Just as her gaze left him, however, he responded in a tired murmur.

"Of course you are, pet. You wouldn't be here if you weren't. Now go to sleep."

He obviously was trying to reassure her, but Margot felt anything but reassured. She hesitated, shifting uncomfortably before finally blurting out, "It's just… I've done so many stupid things. Bad things, really."

Alfred rolled onto his back and groaned, "Margot, you're done in. You're exhausted. Rest. It's likely you won't even remember this in the morning."

She fell silent. He was right. She was probably being ridiculous. But she couldn't help wondering. Alfred had called this "Lee" person a good woman. In fact, everybody had seemed so supportive of Gordon when he'd announced his plans to find her. She was obviously well worth the effort. Margot could only imagine what she must be like: beautiful, poised, graceful and intelligent. She probably had it all together.

And Margot, well it wasn't even worth comparing herself to such a woman. She was the gardener with muddy boots, dirt under her fingernails no matter how hard she tried to clean them, and a lame leg. Not to mention all the scars and baggage she carried with her.

What did "good" even mean, anyway? Kind? She had too short of a temper for that. Decent? Moral? Nope. She'd done plenty of morally questionable things in the past. Thoughtful? No. She was selfish. In fact, the more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that she was not a good person. Alfred needed somebody kind and soft and graceful, somebody who would always do the right thing. He didn't need somebody rough and damaged the way Margot was.

Her voice was soft and mournful as she glanced at Alfred and admitted, "I think you could do better than me, and I'm afraid that one of these days you'll realize that."

Alfred, who had closed his eyes again and had been on the verge of sleep, groaned in frustration and sat up, regarding her peevishly. "Margot," he stated in a hoarse, long-suffering tone, "nothing good is going to come of thinking the way you're thinking right now."

She shrugged helplessly, as if to say she couldn't help it.

The man sighed heavily and reached for her, taking her shoulder firmly in hand. "Look, luv, I know all about your war baggage, your little side ventures as an assassin, all those little tics and quirks you try to hide, and all the rest of your most disagreeable traits—including a particular penchant for rousing decent blokes from a good night's rest—and I'm still here. Bloody irritated and exhausted, mind you, but damn it all, Margot, I'm here, and I intend on remaining here. Now," he added huffily, "if you're quite satisfied, I am closing my eyes and going to sleep." With that, he rolled over, turning his back to her and drawing the covers up over his shoulder.

Margot, sensing he'd leave if she dared talk again, simply sighed and leaned against him, taking comfort in the fact that he was probably right. He was still there, after all. But even as she started to fall asleep, she wondered if it was enough.

* * *

"How do you feel about dinner tonight?" inquired Alfred the next morning, when Margot limped down to the kitchen for breakfast.

He was preparing poached eggs and toast, and Margot watched as he deftly slipped an egg onto the toast, cutting into the yolk and garnishing it with a sprig of watercress. He slid the plate towards her, and offered her a fork, which she took with a grateful smile.

Despite last night's doubts, Margot felt much better after a few hours' sleep. Her insecurities seemed a lot less potent when subjected to scrutiny in the daylight. Especially when she noticed the kind expression on Alfred's face and saw the way he was looking at her. In fact, she felt well enough to tease him. "Dinner sounds nice," she replied quietly, focusing on her toast. "But don't we have dinner every night?"

"You're hilarious," he responded dryly. "I was thinking we could go out tonight."

Margot feigned a shocked gasp, mostly to cover up the surprised thrill that briefly lifted her spirits. "Don't tell me you're actually considering taking a night off."

He brandished a wooden spoon at her warningly. "Don't make me change my mind."

She smiled and gave in. "All right. Where do you want to go?"

Alfred turned his attention back to preparing Bruce's breakfast as he responded, "I've taken the liberty of making reservations at Chez Parnes, if that suits your fancy." He glanced up briefly, catching Margot's eye hopefully.

"Chez Parnes? Alfred, you're not trying to impress me, are you?"

"It usually works," he replied with a small hint of a smile. "Will you be ready at seven?"

Margot cut a small triangle off of her toast and dredged it in egg yolk before popping it in her mouth. She made a show of chewing it thoughtfully, finally answering, "All right. But Alfred, I have to warn you—I don't think I have anything appropriate to wear."

He frowned slightly, almost surprised. "Really? Nothing?"

She laughed softly. "I don't garden in evening gowns, if you haven't noticed."

"You let me take care of that," he reassured her, carefully rearranging the nasturtium and lavender blossoms in a small vase on the platter.

Margot watched curiously.

"I see you're still in the habit of cutting up all my flowers," she noted, indicating the blossoms with the end of her fork.

" _Your_ flowers?" he responded with raised brows.

"It's my job to keep the gardens looking healthy and vigorous, and you come along and pick them over."

"Speaking of, you really ought to pay more attention to the lavender. It's starting to look wilted."

"You can just stay in your kitchen," Margot retorted with a laugh. "Leave the gardening to me."

Alfred pursed his lips and shot an unamused look in her direction. He picked up the tray, but before he went to deliver Bruce's breakfast, he glanced her over and murmured, "Blue, I think. Or perhaps a dark gray."

And on that mysterious note, he left.

* * *

Margot came inside before lunch, intending to ask Alfred if he had any desire to go into town with her to look at rosebushes. He'd taken to caring for the small rose garden ever since she'd left, and he seemed to enjoy the time he spent there. Sometimes she'd catch him carefully pruning them back. Even if she didn't see him doing it, she knew the days when he did, because she'd find a rose on her nightstand or in a vase by the window.

She didn't find Alfred in the kitchen, or in his rooms, so she went to the study. The door was closed, but she could hear voices faintly through it. She was about to knock, but something held her back.

"Are you asking me permission, Alfred?"

"Yes, Master B. I suppose I am. It is your house, after all, and I am in your employ."

There was a long pause before she heard Bruce state, "I think you should."

"Thank you, sir. I agree."

"Have you decided how you're going to do it?" asked Bruce.

Do what? Margot wondered curiously to herself.

"Well…" At this, Alfred hemmed and hawed a bit. "I thought I'd keep it simple."

"She does seem the simple type," Bruce replied with a bit of amusement in his voice.

Margot frowned, suddenly suspecting that they were talking about her. But what for? Even as she thought this, she realized that the conversation had continued without her. Bruce seemed to have asked a question, and Alfred was in the middle of answering.

"…because I know she'd do anything for you," said Alfred. "Just as I would. Now, if you haven't any more questions, shall I prepare you something for lunch, sir?"

"Yes, Alfred. I'd like that. Thank you."

"Of course, Master B."

Margot hurriedly dodged for the nearest alcove, hiding in the shadows as Alfred left the study and made his way quietly down the corridor. She waited for longer than necessary before leaving her hiding place, still trying to figure out what she'd just heard.

When she was sure she wouldn't be caught, she went back out to the gardens, mostly to seem busy. Why would Alfred be talking to Bruce about her? And what, she wondered, was he asking permission for?

She was pulling weeds from the herb garden, only to find herself pulling out the dill, when her phone buzzed in her back pocket, startling her out of her work.

It was Bruce.

"Alfred says to come in and wash up for lunch."

Margot was silent for a moment. "Where are you?" she inquired flatly.

"I'm in the kitchen. Why?"

"Do me a favor and look out the back window."

She stood, and a moment later, Bruce's face appeared in the window. He caught sight of her and smiled, opening the window to shout, "Come inside!"

Margot wiped her face with her handkerchief, which she tossed at Bruce as she entered the kitchen. "I can't believe you called me for that when I was literally right outside," she snorted with irritated amusement.

"Hey!" he protested, following her to the table. "I didn't know you were out back. You could have been down on the south grounds for all I knew."

Alfred turned to greet her with a brief kiss that tasted like a vinaigrette dressing, which he'd apparently just sampled out of a bowl on the counter.

"You wouldn't believe who just called me," she murmured, throwing an accusing glance back at Bruce.

"I don't see the point in searching the grounds for you when I can just pick up a phone," grumbled the boy.

"Help me set the table," Margot simply replied, going to the cupboards to reach down the plates.

Bruce dutifully went for the silverware, poking Margot in the side with a fork as he passed by.

"Hey!" She swatted him with one of the plates.

"Hey!" He jabbed at her with the fork again, which she fended off with her plate.

"Really?" Alfred interrupted.

Both turned guiltily to face the man, who regarded them with reproach. "Do I need to separate the pair of you?"

"No," Margot retorted, eyeing the boy accusingly. "Bruce would just call me again on his phone."

"Finish up, will you?" Alfred responded impatiently. "Lunch is ready."

The food was, as usual, excellent in Margot's opinion. Of course, before she'd come to live at the manor, she'd become accustomed to a certain kind of food, mostly boxed or canned. Anything was good compared to her previous fare.

Bruce only picked at his food, excusing himself early to return to the study. Alfred looked reproachfully at the boy, but didn't stop him.

It left them on their own. Margot sensed an unnatural tension in the room, much of which was probably her own doing, stemming from the awkwardness of overhearing Alfred's conversation with Bruce. Part of her simply wanted to bring it up and ask the man pointblank what he'd discussed with the boy, but the rest of her was mortified at the idea of admitting that she'd been eavesdropping.

Instead, she simply stated hesitantly, "I'm looking forward to dinner tonight."

Alfred smiled slightly and nodded. "Good."

And with that, she simply fled, leaving the butler alone in the kitchen with the leftovers of lunch on the table.

* * *

Margot found a large, flat box waiting for her on her bed when she came inside that evening. Curious, she approached and opened it. Inside lay a dark charcoal gown, carefully folded. Lifting it gently from its bed of tissue paper, she held it aloft and examined it quietly. It was beautiful, the most exquisite item of clothing she'd ever touched.

Funnily enough, the first thing that came to her mind was how Alfred could afford something like it on a butler's salary. What was a butler's salary anyway? Obviously quite a bit more than a gardener's.

On the floor, her foot brushed against a bag. Margot set the dress down and reached into the bag, pulling out a pair of shoes. Flats, she noticed with a smile. She hadn't been able to walk in heels since the bomb. Trust Alfred to consider something like that.

Margot wasn't one to care for nice clothes, which was why she was surprised to feel so eager to try them on. She hurriedly showered, scrubbing herself clean, trying to get all of the dirt out from under her fingernails.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd tried to look nice. What had she worn to her mother's funeral? Probably a pair of dark slacks and a hoodie. She couldn't recall. She didn't really want to remember that anyway.

Somebody had been paying attention, she thought as she put on the dress. It fit. Either Alfred was very good at guessing sizes, or he'd been through her clothes while she was out working. Not that she'd notice any signs of rummaging if he had gone through her drawers. In fact, he probably would have left her things more organized if anything.

She touched up her makeup, staring at herself in the mirror, her hazel eyes critical and full of doubt. She felt unnatural, as if she didn't belong to that pretty face in the mirror. It wasn't that Margot didn't think she was attractive, and honestly, she didn't care either way. But there was so much behind that face, so much that she hid, that the face itself started to look like porcelain—fixed and false. She wasn't sure how she expected herself to look, but she knew that she felt much more natural when her face was smeared with dirt and fertilizer, her dark hair coming free of its restraints.

Speaking of, Margot wondered if her hair wasn't just a little too stiff that evening, pulled back in her militaristic bun. She wasn't in her dress blues; she wasn't going to a uniform inspection. Reluctantly, she pulled her hair loose and let it fall around her shoulders. It felt strange to let it down, and she wasn't sure she liked it, but before she could do anything about it, she heard a knock on the door.

Margot rose from her place at the vanity and made her way to the door, snatching her purse off of a nearby chair as she went. She reached for the knob, but hesitated for a moment, steeling herself before she answered the door.

Alfred looked as if he had been ready to say something, but the words left him when he caught sight of her.

"My God," he blurted out instead.

"I know," she replied self-consciously, preempting any possible teasing. "You didn't realize I had a face under all that dirt. You weren't even sure I was a woman."

Alfred didn't even seem to hear her. "Margot," he whispered, "You look beautiful tonight."

She flushed, embarrassed by the uncharacteristic compliment.

He leaned in to greet her with a kiss, short and pleasant. He was quiet as they both limped out front, where the car was waiting for them, but he kept casting surreptitious glances in Margot's direction.

"Where's Bruce?" she asked as he opened the door for her, patiently waiting for her to get in. "Is he not coming?"

Alfred smiled and closed her door. "Most women wouldn't assume that I'd bring the boy along on a date," he pointed out as he got into the driver's seat.

She simply glanced at him expectantly. "Well?"

"I invited him," Alfred admitted as they passed through the gates and onto the road. "He declined. I think even he believes we should have a night out alone."

"I suppose it could be romantic," she replied with a shrug.

He glanced at her. "That's what I was hoping. Still," he added, reaching for her hand and squeezing it as he returned his attention to the road. "I'm glad you thought of Bruce."

"Of course," she whispered, turning her gaze out through the windows.

Chez Parnes was a restaurant in Gotham's Diamond district, on the top floor of one of the many high-rise structures. The _maître d'_ greeted Alfred with a friendly smile and nod, as if they knew each other, and Alfred quietly requested a table by the window.

Margot couldn't help but lean in and whisper into his ear, "You sure you want to sit by the window?"

"Why not?" he inquired with a slight frown.

"Snipers."

He regarded her flatly. "This isn't a war-zone, Margot."

"Says who?" she replied under her breath.

She only felt a little uncomfortable as they took their seats, glancing tentatively through the window and out into the darkness. Other buildings around them rose like pillars of light, while below the traffic stopped and started, like a river of brightly colored beads.

"Everything looks prettier through the glass," she noted quietly, touching her fingers to the window. "It's like a different city."

Alfred peered over his menu at her, considering her curiously. "You were raised in Gotham, weren't you?"

She nodded. "It was very claustrophobic," she said thoughtfully, trailing off as the waiter approached to take their drink orders.

Margot let Alfred order for her. She trusted his judgement, and she thought it was interesting to watch him interact in an environment where he wasn't the one serving. She noticed that as the waiter left, Alfred checked his pocket watch, running his thumb thoughtfully over its face before he closed it and tucked it back into place.

She could tell his thoughts were on Bruce, alone at Wayne Manor.

"Did Bruce mention why he didn't want to come along?" she inquired, adding, "Other than for our benefit."

Alfred frowned slightly. "You think he might be up to something?"

"Do you?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. I wouldn't put it past the little bugger, though."

She smiled and laughed softly. "He'll be fine, Alfred." She reached out and put her hand over his.

He nodded, trying to seem convinced, but his mind still seemed to be elsewhere, even once their food arrived.

It was excellent, Margot had to admit, though she had no idea what it was. Some kind of white meat, with a sweet dark sauce and a garnish of bitter herbs. It paired very well with the pinot noir, and again she found herself impressed by the man's knowledge of food and wine. How did he know so much about so many things? It was almost a superpower, she thought wryly to herself. Granted, the man had at least one weakness, and that was Bruce.

Halfway through the meal, he'd glanced one too many times at that watch of his, and finally Margot felt that she had to say something.

"Alfred," she said gently, "why don't we go home early?"

A small bit of panic flashed across his face. "God, I'm not boring you, am I?"

"No," she reassured him with a smile. "That story about the one-legged sadhu you met in Punjab was incredible. Perhaps a little too incredible," she teased, adding a little more seriously, "You just…seem worried."

He sighed and shook his head with chagrin. "I can't stop wondering what that bloody boy is up to." Glancing up at Margot, he asked, "Are you certain you don't want to stay for dessert? I'd hate to ruin the evening by cutting it short."

"Let's order dessert to go," she suggested. "We can even bring something back for Bruce."

A broad smile warmed the man's face. "An excellent idea." He immediately signaled for the waiter.

While they waited for dessert and the check, Margot noted humorously, "Of the two of you, Bruce is by far the more entertaining one, anyway."

Alfred chuckled, already seeming more at ease. "Only because you stand a chance when you arm wrestle with him."

She laughed.

The ride home was quiet but comfortable, both of them a little relieved to be returning to the manor: Alfred because he was worried about Bruce, Margot because she wanted out of her shoes.

They were just pulling up the long driveway when Margot caught sight of a familiar dark figure climbing out through one of the study windows.

"Stop here," she told Alfred abruptly, hardly waiting for him to come to a full stop before she'd opened her door and was dashing across the lawn.

"Hey!" she called after the girl. "Stop!"

Cat stopped and whirled around, careful to remain well out of reach. "I was just leaving," she reassured Margot flippantly.

"No, that's not it," she replied, panting slightly. Running in an evening gown was difficult. "I just thought you might like some dessert. We brought it back with us."

The girl hesitated with a suspicious frown. "Is that why you're back so early?"

"Alfred couldn't stop worrying," Margot explained with a laugh. "You know how he is. Besides," she added, "you've helped Bruce so much, cake's the least we can offer."

Cat regarded her warily and was about to reply when Alfred approached, slowed by his cane.

"Everything all right?" the man inquired, resting a protective hand on Margot's shoulder. He caught sight of Cat and greeted her stiffly, "Hello, Miss Kyle. You were just leaving then, were you?"

Margot turned to Alfred and shushed him gently. "I invited her to stay for dessert."

"You what?" He looked sharply at her.

"Look," she whispered, "she'll come whether she's invited or not. At least if you're aware of her visits, you can keep an eye on her."

"I can hear you," Cat pointed out flatly.

"Well?" Margot asked the girl. "Are you staying or not?"

She hesitated. "What kind of cake?"

Margot smiled. "Chocolate, with a big glass of milk on the side."

Cat shrugged. "Fine."

"Come on then," Margot invited the girl. "We'll give you a ride."

She scoffed, "No, thanks."

"She's like a stray cat," Alfred noted as they watched the girl run back towards the manor, climbing through one of the windows.

Bruce and Cat were waiting for them by the time they entered the kitchen.

"Selina said you brought cake," Bruce greeted them hopefully.

"Yes, Master B. Now why don't you pull down the plates and help me set the table?"

They gathered around the table and watched patiently as Alfred portioned out dessert. Fortunately, they'd brought back three sizeable servings. It was easy to divide it between four people. As promised, Margot poured everyone, Cat included, a tall glass of milk.

The cake had come with whipped cream on the side, meant to dollop on top. Margot snagged an extra spoon of it and plopped the cream into her hand.

"What are you up to now?" inquired Alfred with raised brow.

Margot just smiled and looked at Bruce and Cat, who were both already halfway through their cake, despite barely being served. "Watch this," she said to them.

They watched as she hit the inside of her elbow with her clean hand, jerking her arm upward and sending the whipped cream soaring up into the air. She caught it neatly in her mouth and grinned.

"Nice," Bruce exclaimed softly, trying not to look too impressed.

"That's easy," retorted Cat, dipping her finger into the container of whipped cream, much to Alfred's chagrin. "I can do you one better."

She stood, flipped her whipped cream up into the air, did a fast spin on her toes, and caught the cream in her mouth.

"How did you do that?" Bruce asked, not bothering to moderate his awe this time. He dragged his cake fork through the whipped cream, leaving crumbs behind.

Margot watched with a smile as Cat showed the young man what to do. He tried it, and laughed sheepishly when it landed on his nose. Again, he tried and got it in his eye.

By then even Alfred was chuckling. "A suggestion, Master B," he interjected before the boy could scoop up more whipped cream.

"What?"

The man raised his own spoon of whipped cream and sent a blob of the stuff hurtling at Bruce's face.

"Alfred!" protested the boy with a laugh, wiping whipped cream from his forehead.

"Your reflexes are lacking," noted the man.

Bruce reached for the container, but Alfred pulled it out of reach, so the boy pinched off a bit of his cake and threw it instead. The butler hastily ducked.

"If you will permit me to say so, you throw like a girl, Master B."

"Hey!" Cat and Margot retorted simultaneously. Alfred was suddenly pelted by cake from both sides.

"Oi!"

"Ha!" Bruce shouted triumphantly when a piece of his cake hit Margot squarely in the jaw.

"Oh, no you don't!" she responded, lifting her half-empty glass of milk and drenching him with it.

The boy gasped and spluttered while Cat nearly seized up with laughter.

Her amusement was curtailed by an abrupt shriek when Alfred splattered a scoop of whipped cream over her face.

Mayhem ensued for the next few minutes, until most of the cake and milk was either being worn or dripping onto the floor in soggy globs.

"All right!" bellowed Alfred, catching Bruce by the collar as the young man careened around the table, trying to catch Cat. "That is quite enough," he added once things had quieted down. "Now that you've all had a laugh, it's time to start tidying up."

"I'm out," said Cat, dashing for the kitchen door.

"Oi!" Alfred barked, but she was already gone.

"Alfred," Bruce protested unhappily.

"It's getting late," said the man in a stern voice. "I'd say you have enough time to mop up this mess and then get on to bed."

The boy sighed heavily, but nodded dutifully. "Yes, sir."

Margot laughed softly to herself and started to clear the dishes off of the table, washing them while Bruce mopped the floor and Alfred wiped down the tabletop, the counters, the walls.

"How the hell did it get on the bloody ceiling?" he inquired in weary irritation.

Bruce and Margot both glanced up and noticed that, indeed, cake had somehow stuck to the ceiling.

Finally, the kitchen was returned to its previous state of cleanliness, and Alfred sent Bruce upstairs to wash up. Then he turned on Margot.

"You," he said, "are a bad influence. A disaster. Pandora's Box." But he came nearer as he spoke, pulling her into a long, sticky kiss.

"Thank you," she replied when they parted, reaching up to wipe a bit of whipped cream from his cheek. Glancing down, she added ruefully, "Sorry about the dress."

"Forget about the bloody dress," he growled. "I'm about to tear it right off of you."

There was something about that voice that gave her a strange feeling of exhilaration. "Catch me," she responded as she turned and fled.

Margot had never been so aware of how long it took to reach any of the bedrooms from the kitchen. Hers was the closest, and it was there that she ran, pursued by Alfred. Despite his injured leg, she suspected him of letting her narrowly evade his grasp until they were in her room, where he made good on his promise and tore her right out of her dress.

Afterwards, they both lay on their backs, stared quietly at the ceiling.

"I apologize that tonight didn't go according to plan," murmured Alfred.

Margot glanced at him and smiled. "It was perfect," she reassured him.

Alfred turned towards her and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, his front pressed against her back. "Still," he said, pressing his lips to her shoulder, "there was something I meant to ask you before we came home."

"What's that?" she inquired, her interest piqued.

He rested his chin in the crook of her neck and whispered softly in her ear, "I'm not sure I should ask now."

"You can't just tell me you have a question for me and then refuse to ask it," Margot protested. "That's the epitome of bad manners."

Alfred laughed quietly. "You're right," he agreed. "Give me a moment."

He rose and, to Margot's surprise, started to dress himself. She watched curiously as he finished buttoning his shirt, pulled his trousers up, and snapped his braces back on over his shoulders. He felt for something in his pocket, seemed satisfied, and came around to her side of the bed. By now, she was suspicious. She sat up, clenching the sheets around herself.

"What is it?" she asked.

Before she could finish the question, however, the man braced himself against the bedside table and carefully lowered himself onto his uninjured knee. For a moment, Margot wondered why he was kneeling in front of her, especially with his leg still obviously causing him a great deal of pain. But then a sudden though struck her, and before she had enough time to ruminate on it, Alfred's hand had slipped into his pocket and reemerged with something clasped in his palm.

A small, black box, inside which rested a simple band of white gold, crested by a single, shining diamond.

"Oh my God," she blurted out impulsively.

Encouraged by her obvious surprise, Alfred spoke. "I love you," he told her, his face creasing in a smile, "and I think I'd like to keep you. Will you do me the honor, Margaret Vallant?"

Still staring in silent shock, Margot simply watched as Alfred pulled the ring from its box, took her hand, and slowly slipped it onto her finger, just to give her a feel for it, should she accept. He was fairly certain she would, but seconds were ticking by, and she still hadn't spoken. He knew she'd heard him, and even if she hadn't, there was no doubt about what the ring meant, but he couldn't resist repeating the question once more, urging her to reply.

"Margot, will you marry me?"


	42. Chapter Forty-One

_"I'm on one knee,  
Lover please,  
How can I put it more simply?  
And I wait for your invitation,  
And I'm so, so, so, so over waiting.  
Hey lady,  
Don't give up on me,  
Dont' burn your heart out, love,  
Till we're ash over seas." _

_"Hey Lady" –Thriving Ivory_

* * *

Chapter Forty-One:

What was Alfred thinking, asking her to marry him? Surely he wasn't the kind of person who did that sort of thing. What would it change? Well, other than the fact that they'd legally be husband and wife, and her name would be Margot Pennyworth, and that sounded a little odd—she'd have to get used to that—that is, if she said "yes", and she wasn't sure she would, because what was the point of changing things when they were already just fine the way they were?

Weren't they?

Of course, all of these thoughts went through Margot's mind in the space of a few seconds, and she suddenly realized that Alfred was there, still kneeling in front of her, waiting patiently for her response.

Margot opened her mouth, not quite sure what was going to come out, to be honest. Of course, as soon as her lips parted, the answer came bursting out, belying all of the panicked thought that had gone into it.

"Yes." Feeling giddy, Margot found that once she'd started speaking, it was difficult to stop. "Yes. Absolutely. God, yes."

A relieved expression crossed Alfred's face, and he grinned as he pulled her into a kiss. He'd been fairly sure of the answer, but even so, it was never easy to wait for confirmation.

"What now?" Margot inquired when they parted.

The man shook his head. "Honestly, I have no idea."

Margot laughed wryly. "Great."

* * *

Despite the new circumstances, things didn't change much over the next few days.

Bruce seemed unusually brooding, but Margot doubted it was because of the news. For one thing, Alfred had asked him about it first—in the conversation Margot had overheard—and Bruce had given his consent. Besides, it wasn't as if they were forgetting him in the midst of all their planning.

Actually, to be honest, there wasn't much planning going on. Both Alfred and Margot were content with the idea of a small wedding, preferably somewhere on the grounds of the sprawling estate itself. Only a few guests would suffice, and their idea of a honeymoon seemed to include a movie and a couple bottles of scotch, with a late morning to sleep off the inevitable aftereffects. They hadn't even decided on a date, a cake, or an officiator yet. In fact, the only thing that had been taken care of was Margot's dress.

Alfred had brought it up first, mentioning tentatively that should she wish to, she was well within her rights to wear her military uniform.

"I'm not wearing my dress blues," she'd insisted almost immediately.

She may have imagined it, but she thought she'd seen a bit of relief cross his face, soon masked by mild surprise. "I didn't peg you for a woman who fancied the flounces and lace and such."

Margot had laughed at the idea. "I'm not." And even though Alfred had waited expectantly for further illumination, she hadn't said anything more. She'd made a few mysterious trips into the city, but other than that, life at the manor continued much the same as before. There was no reason for Bruce to be upset by those trivialities.

The more she thought, the more she realized that it was probably the weight of his investigation and the frustration of what looked like a dead end. Every time he seemed close to an answer, another trail would unfold, revealing more mystery, more questions. And over the past couple of days, he'd found next to nothing on this secret organization he'd started to investigate. Rather than setting the matter aside and waiting for something to turn up, or even just taking a short break to clear his head, he spent hour after hour digging through documents, researching on his father's computer in that dark dungeon of a room, and pacing.

It was Margot's day off, and she could have probably justified leaving him to his own devices, but she decided to take pity on Bruce. She'd taken so many sick days anyway, that she probably could work every day for a month and not make them up. She rode her bike into the city, stopping by an old friend's house for some equipment, which she brought back to the manor.

She found Bruce in the study, poring through documents on the sofa. His clothes were dusted with dirt, and his face was smudged.

"You look like you've been through the crawlspace," she told him from the doorway.

He glanced up. "Oh. No, I was just…" he trailed off, catching sight of the equipment in her hands. "What's that?"

"Oh this?" She glanced down. "Just something I picked up from a friend. I thought you might like to join me, but you're probably too busy."

She started to walk away, smiling slightly when Bruce said, "Too busy for what?" Margot turned around slowly and noted the small spark of interest on his face.

She shrugged. "Target practice."

The boy raised a quizzical brow.

Margot grinned, beckoning him over. "Come on—I'll show you. This is something best done outside."

She was pleased to notice that after a slight hesitation, Bruce followed her.

Outside, she handed him a lightweight vest and a mask before strapping on her own gear.

"You ever try paintballing?" she asked him.

He shook his head, sliding on his mask.

She picked up one of the paintball guns and held it in front of him. "Couldn't be easier. Just point and shoot. Got it? Try aiming for that shed."

Bruce took the gun from her and aimed it at the shed. He pulled the trigger, and a splash of blue suddenly burst on the wall.

"Looks like you're a natural," she told him, patting him on the shoulder. "Ready?"

"Wait, what are the rules?"

Margot was already jogging out over the grounds. "Try not to get shot!" she called back.

Bruce really was a natural, Margot noticed. He was quick on his feet, and he made good use of the landscaping for cover. Of course, talent couldn't make up for the years of training that Margot had. After the better part of an hour, Bruce looked as if he'd become part of a Jackson Pollock painting, while she'd only been hit five or six times.

Still, he seemed to be enjoying himself, distracted from whatever it was that was troubling him.

At least until Alfred came looking for him.

"What in the bloody hell is going on here?" he exclaimed as he approached, still leaning on his cane, though his leg had improved greatly.

Bruce ducked behind the cover of a shrub, leaving Margot standing guiltily in the open. "Margot was teaching me paintball," the boy called from behind the bush.

"Yeah, I can see that, can't I?" retorted Alfred. He glared at Margot and growled, "What do you think you're doing, teaching a bloody fourteen-year-old how to handle guns?"

Bruce stood and protested, "They're not real—"

The look Alfred shot him silenced him.

Margot felt a rush of guilt, suddenly doubting herself, wondering if what she'd done had in fact been a bad idea. She'd had good intentions, but she also knew that Alfred disapproved of weapons, only using them when they were absolutely necessary, and never encouraging Bruce to even handle them. She would have thought that the butler's disappointment wouldn't sting quite so much, considering that she was now engaged to the man. But somehow, that only made it worse.

"He's right, Bruce," Margot said in the silence that followed, pulling the mask from her head. "This wasn't a good idea."

Alfred seemed surprised to hear her agree with him. In fact, he seemed speechless. It wasn't often that Margot admitted when she was wrong. Finally, shaking himself out of his shock, he managed to mutter, "Right. Well. You should know better." Something in his voice sounded almost apologetic.

"I'm going to go clean up," she said, starting to leave.

The butler turned to Bruce. "That's not a bad idea for you either," he noted.

Bruce, who had hung his head in shame, suddenly looked up with a mischievous smile and pulled the trigger.

"Ha!"

A yellow paintball splattered on Alfred's thigh, and the man jumped. "Oi!" he barked, going after the boy and grabbing him by the collar. "That's enough."

Margot left. Despite her chagrin, she silently agreed with the butler's words. Despite the questionable nature of the idea, Bruce had spent almost an hour outside, distracted from his heavy burden and—dare she admit it?—enjoying himself. No matter what Alfred thought of it, that certainly was enough.

* * *

Margot had taken a quick shower to rinse off any residual paint, dressed in clean clothes, and was in the process of drying her hair when Alfred appeared. Margot quickly shut off the hairdryer and stood up straight as she caught sight of him standing in her bathroom doorway, leaning against the doorframe.

"You're quite the sly little minx, aren't you?" He didn't sound angry anymore.

"What do you mean?" she asked innocently, running her fingers through her tousled, half-dry hair.

"The boy needed a diversion," he clarified. "I've been trying to get him out of that study all day, and you did it in a matter of minutes."

Margot shrugged. "Well…he knows how strict you are about weapons in the house. There's a certain allure to the forbidden, even if it's just paintballs. He may be precocious and determined, but he's still a kid at heart."

"I can't say I approve," Alfred began, pushing off of the doorframe and coming nearer. "Still," he added in a quieter voice, pushing back a damp strand of her hair, "Well done, Margot."

She smiled, pleased by his praise. "You're not angry?" she inquired, though she already knew the answer.

He shook his head, his face very close to hers. "No," he murmured, bending to press his lips to hers. It didn't matter how many times he kissed her—she still felt a thrill course through her every time it happened. Looking her in the eye, he smiled and continued, "I don't know what we'd do without you."

"Funny," she replied quietly, "I could say the same thing."

Another kiss was followed by a soft inquiry. "Why don't you join me in the kitchen and keep me company while I prepare dinner?"

Margot shook her head, explaining apologetically, "Wish I could, but I've got to run into town for a fitting in a bit."

"A fitting?" Alfred's brow furrowed.

"For a dress."

"A dress?"

"What are you, a parrot?" she teased. "Yes, a dress. I've found one."

"So quickly?" Alfred seemed concerned.

"Why do you look worried?"

The man sighed and shook his head. "I've just realized all the rest of the plans we still have to make."

Margot scrunched her face in a sympathetic grimace. "Don't worry about it. If worse comes to worst, we'll just forget the plans and drive down to city hall. We fork over eighty bucks and it'll be done in five minutes."

"Right," he retorted sarcastically. "And we'll honeymoon in the bar across the street."

"Don't be ridiculous," Margot insisted seriously. "It's not a bar; it's a burger joint. And I hear they give free milkshakes to newlyweds."

Alfred's voice was about as sweet as one of those novelty suckers with the scorpion in the middle. "Perfect."

* * *

Margot received a call the next week. Her dress was ready.

She caught Alfred in the foyer, just as she was slipping on her coat. "I'm going into town," she told him. "Do you need anything?"

"I'll drive you," he suggested, reaching for his own coat.

She shook her head, stopping him with a hand on his. "I'll be all right," she reassured him. "It's just a little rain. Besides, I'm picking up the dress, and I don't want you peeking."

The man frowned. "Margot, you know I don't like you riding that bike of yours, especially in the rain."

"It'll be fine," she insisted. "Look," she added, indicating the window with a nod of her head, "it's already starting to let up a bit."

He reluctantly hung his coat back up and reached for her, pressing a small kiss to her brow. "Be safe," he told her, running his hand up her arm.

"I will."

"Oh, and bring back a bottle of Macallan, will you?" he added with a smile.

Margot held out her hand to him, palm up. "That stuff's seventy-five a bottle," she replied. "Start shelling out."

Alfred eyed her with one raised brow as he pulled out his wallet and counted out a couple of hundreds. "Fetch two," he murmured, his lips pursed as he pressed the money into her hand. "And I expect change back."

"Of course." She grinned and added, "That is, _after_ I take out the delivery fee."

"Of course," he grumbled, barely hiding a smile of his own.

Margot turned to leave, only to feel Alfred's hand on her wrist. He turned her around and—for no reason at all—pulled her into a long, affectionate kiss. He cupped the side of her face, pressing his brow to hers. He didn't say a word; he just held her there for a few moments.

"I'll be back," she promised him with a soft laugh. "It's not like I'm leaving forever."

"No," he agreed, stroking her hair before reluctantly parting. "I'll see you soon."

Margot nodded and plucked her helmet from its hook as she left, jamming it over her head and lifting her collar against the rain.

Her bike had a little trouble starting once she pulled it out of the garage. She hadn't used it in a while. For a moment, Margot worried that she'd have to go back inside and ask to borrow one of the cars. She wasn't going to let Alfred drive her. She couldn't care less if he saw her dress or not, but she had another stop to make on the way back that she didn't want him to know about.

Just a few days ago, she'd caught Alfred trimming the rosebushes, and he'd expressed his desire to start breeding them.

"Did you know," he'd commented, "a truly blue rose has never been bred before?"

Margot had nodded. "Yeah. They have to dye white roses blue."

"I think I could breed one," he'd told her.

"A blue rose?" she'd retorted skeptically.

"Why not?"

Margot had simply snorted and shook her head. "I'll believe it when I see it."

A few hours of research later, she'd contacted a rose breeder with a shop in the city, who said he had a few cuttings off of a blue moon rosebush that he'd be willing to sell her. The flowers were more lavender than blue, but if Alfred really was interested in breeding a blue rose, it would be a good start. She intended to surprise him with the cuttings and help him plant them.

Just as she was about to give up and go back inside for the keys to one of the spare town cars, Margot's bike roared to life. She patted it affectionately and revved down the driveway onto the main road.

She spent most of the afternoon in the city, noticing with pleasure that the rain had stopped and the sun was beginning shine through the clouds as she finished up her errands. The day was turning out to be quite pleasant. A thrill of energy coursed through her as she collected the rosebush cuttings and carefully placed them inside her backpack.

Alfred would certainly be pleased with the surprise.

Out on the street again, Margot mounted her bike and pulled on her helmet. Her dress still rested in its weather-proofed box, strapped to the back of her bike, and the two bottles of Macallan clinked gently in her backpack, next to the rose cuttings. That afternoon had produced successful results.

She sped away, hoping to reach the manor before Alfred started to prepare dinner. She wanted to plant the cuttings with him that day if possible. Traffic, unfortunately, wasn't cooperating.

Margot turned off onto White Street, taking the back way towards Queens Bridge. She knew the streets of Gotham well enough to navigate around most of the backup.

Turning onto Queens Road, she noticed that the traffic was still stop and go, but on her bike, she was able to maneuver between the rows of cars, steadily making her way to the bridge. She knew the traffic would begin to dissipate once she crossed into Bristol County.

Margot reached the bridge, navigating the narrow space between the right lane of traffic and the barrier. Cars horns blared as she sped past, and she laughed.

"Told you, Alfred," she muttered to herself. "This bike's more of an asset than a liab— _shit!_ "

Just a few cars ahead, a truck suddenly pulled out, apparently intending to do the same thing Margot was doing, despite the fact that trucks didn't maneuver narrow spaces the way motorbikes did. She hardly had time to react, much less time to stop. She squeezed the brakes hard, her front wheel hitting the back of the truck, flipping her up off of the bike and over the barrier.

The city, the riverbank, and the water all blurred together as Margot tumbled through the air. She knew she was going into the river, but she was so disoriented that it seemed impossible to tell when she'd hit. She could only feel the wind whipping at her, her heart dropping into the bottom of her stomach as she fell. Her thoughts ran through her head at light speed. What should she do? Brace herself? Try to relax? The fall alone would probably kill her, if she wasn't already injured from the impact with the truck. Her back was soaked through—at first she panicked and thought it was blood, until she remembered the scotch in her backpack.

 _Dammit, that stuff was expensive—_

Then she hit the water with a shocking splash that jarred her entire body, and everything went dark.


	43. Chapter Forty-Two

_"At times the world can seem an unfriendly and sinister place, but believe us when we say there is much more good in it than bad. All you have to do is look hard enough. And what might seem to be a series of unfortunate events, may, in fact, be the first steps of a journey… And remember one thing my darlings and never forget it…know that as long as you have each other, you have your family, and you are home."_

 _"The Letter That Never Came" –Lemony Snicket_

* * *

Chapter Forty-Two:

Alfred had paced the same section of carpet so many times that Bruce was beginning to wonder if he wasn't going to wear a hole into it.

"I'm sure she's fine, Alfred," the young man spoke up from his place on the sofa, though he couldn't help but feel a twinge of worry himself. It was the infernal pacing of his butler that put him on edge. If only the man would stop.

"Well I wouldn't know, because she isn't answering her phone now, is she?" responded Alfred with furrowed brow and a deep frown. "It's been nearly six hours."

Bruce opened his mouth to say something when the phone on the table suddenly shrieked.

Alfred practically jumped out of his skin and leapt to answer it.

"Wayne Manor," he said with forced calm.

Bruce watched as the man's eyebrows shot up.

"I see." Alfred frowned, the creases in his forehead deepening. Bruce could tell that the news wasn't good.

"Are you quite sure? Yes. Yes, of course. Is there anything—? No. Right." A long sigh shook its way from his frame. "Thank you, officer," he murmured hoarsely as he set the phone back in its cradle. He didn't look up for a long time, his hand still resting on the phone.

"What is it?" Bruce asked hesitantly.

Alfred glanced up. "There was an accident. They found her motorbike on the bridge. Witnesses say she went into the river." His voice trailed off for a moment, and it was a while before he could add, "They're searching for a body now."

"Alfred…" Bruce began, but the butler wasn't listening.

He stood frozen to the ground, staring into nothing. Of course they'd find the bike—that bloody bike. Hadn't he warned her that it would be the death of her? He clenched his jaw and forced himself to breathe. They hadn't found a body yet. But there had been witnesses to the accident; they'd seen her go off the bridge. If a fall like that hadn't killed her, the river probably had.

Oh God.

Something pressed against Alfred, and he started out of his thoughts, glancing down at the top of Bruce's head. The boy embraced him tightly, and Alfred returned the embrace, holding his young master. They were well accustomed to such hugs, the kind meant to hold someone together when everything threatened to tear them apart.

An uncomfortable tightness squeezed his throat until he thought he wouldn't be able to breathe, but he swallowed it down forcibly. Not in front of the boy, he told himself.

Running a hand over Bruce's thick hair, he took a step back and forced a wan smile. "It'll be all right," he reassured the boy. He hadn't seen such distress on Bruce's face in quite a while.

"Do you think they'll find it? Her body?"

Alfred shook his head. "Let's not dwell on that now, shall we?" He glanced at his watch and added, "It looks to be about your bedtime, anyway."

Bruce didn't move. "Maybe she's all right," he said quietly, looking up at the butler. The hope in the young man's dark eyes nearly broke Alfred.

"Yes," the man whispered hoarsely. "One can always hope."


	44. Chapter Forty-Three

_"Though I'm weak and beaten down,  
I'll slip away into the sound.  
The ghost of you is close to me,  
I'm inside out, you're underneath.  
_ _Don't let me be gone…  
_ _I'm a goner, somebody catch my breath.  
_ _I wanna be known by you.  
_ _I wanna be known by you."_

 _"Goner" –Twenty-One Pilots_

* * *

Chapter Forty-Three:

There was an incessant pounding in her ears, like waves crashing against her eardrums. Her head ached. Everything around her was cold and slick. She remembered falling, tumbling, snagging, reaching, shouting. There was something in her mouth, in her nose. It was putrid and foul and—oh, God—

She rolled over and retched. Something caught in her throat. She was choking. Scrabbling at her mouth, her fingers tangled in a string of some sort, fine and plastic. Fishing line. Pulling slowly, it felt as if she were tugging her stomach up her throat. She gagged.

The line came free, and with it the sludgy black debris that had been caught on it, stuck inside her, sliding over her tongue and landing wetly on the ground. She coughed a couple of times, felt her stomach constrict, but nothing else came out.

Relieved, she wiped her nose with the back of her hand and collapsed.

It was over, she reassured herself.

She could rest.

* * *

The bank was soggy and cold in a wet, penetrating sort of way. It squished underneath her as she shifted and woke with a gasp.

She couldn't feel her arm. Clenching and unclenching her fingers, she lay on her back, unmoving, her glazed eyes barely seeing the dark sky. Sharp, tingling pain slowly traveled through her hand and up to her shoulder.

Moaning, she sat up with a wince, feeling her body complain. Her head swam, and she had to blink several times to focus. Dim moonlight washed over everything. Matted reeds and river weeds surrounded her, whispering softly in the breeze. Something darted across her leg, disappearing into the nearby brush with a rustle.

She tried to rise to her feet, only to slip and land heavily on the squelchy bank. Rolling over, she doggedly pushed herself onto her knees, reaching for a cluster of cattails to use as leverage. As she pulled them, she noticed something pale and bloated just on the other side of the reeds. A dead fish?

Looking closer, she reeled backwards, landing on her backside with an abrupt splash. It wasn't a fish, it was a forearm, and it was still attached to a man who lay facedown in the slime, his fingers buried in muck, as if he were trying to pull himself up the bank. She reached for a loose reed and prodded the man with it. He didn't move. The back of his denim jacket was torn and sticky with mud. Or blood. It looked black in the moonlight.

She scrambled to her feet, tossing the reed aside as she scrabbled up the bank as quickly as she could. Her boots scraped upon concrete suddenly, and an orange lamp cast its warm light over a derelict car that had been left half on the pavement and half in the weeds. She basked in the light for a moment, blinking and staring around herself in blind disorientation.

Looking down at herself, she saw mostly sodden, mud-streaked clothes. Her hands were black with muck. She felt the distinct impression that something was missing. She checked her pockets and found no wallet, no identification, none of her things. There was a receipt in the front right pocket of her jeans, along with a penny that had been lodged in the deepest corner of her pocket. She carefully unfolded the wadded receipt with trembling hands.

The floral shop.

Some of it came back to her. The roses. The impact, shattering glass and wrenching metal. Where was her backpack? Also gone, and she wasn't going to go back to the bank to look for it. She glanced nervously over her shoulder, as if she expected the corpse to come stumbling up the bank and onto the street, pointing at her with an accusing finger.

"I didn't do it," she muttered to herself, wrapping her arms tightly around her torso. A stiff breeze was picking up; she had to get to warmth.

Her limbs were cold and sore. They moved reluctantly, as if there were some kind of delay between her mind and her body. She walked slowly towards the bridge. She could see it in the distance, silhouetted in the orange halo of the city lights. It was a long way to walk, but she knew she had to go there, that she had to cross it.

She had to get home.

* * *

Alfred hadn't heard the kitchen door open, but he heard water running in the sink as he made his last rounds through the house. Bruce was in the study; he'd just left him there minutes ago. His hand immediately went for the gun against the small of his back. He'd taken to carrying it nearly everywhere with him, even in the house and on the grounds.

Pressing himself against the wall, he edged towards the doorway, briefly glancing into the kitchen, his sharp eyes absorbing every detail for half a second before he pulled back. The intruder was at the sink, back turned to him. A little short to be a full-grown man, perhaps a woman, but difficult to tell beneath all the muck. He'd seen a trail of it from the back door to the kitchen, and a pair of muddy boots on the counter.

He'd just cleaned in there not three hours ago.

Chancing another glance, he saw the intruder still bent over the sink, scrubbing manically, face hidden behind long matted locks of hair. Definitely female by the way she moved and held herself. She shifted slightly and suddenly had to grip the sink to keep from collapsing, holding a hand to her left leg and letting out a pained cry.

Before he knew it, Alfred was in the kitchen, and the woman at the sink had whirled around to face him, clutching the counter for support.

"Margot?"

Her hands slipped from the counter, and she disappeared behind it, collapsing to the floor. Dropping his gun, Alfred ran to her, gathering her up in his arms, holding her tightly against him, despite the stench and the squelch of her clothes against him.

"My God," he gasped, "Are you hurt?"

She shook her head weakly.

"Margot, we thought you were dead." He petted her wet hair with a hand, burying his face in her neck, echoing, "We thought you were dead."

"Alfred?" Bruce's voice came from the doorway. "Do you think you could—?" He trailed off as he saw the muddy boots on the counter. He picked his way over the dirty floor, stepping over Alfred's gun, and rounded the counter corner. "Margot!" he exclaimed. Soon Bruce was on his knees too, and Margot sat sandwiched between the boy and the butler, dazed.

"I'm sorry," she apologized after a few moments, her voice hoarse with disuse.

"Don't," Alfred stopped her firmly. "You're home. That's all that matters."

Margot leaned into him, closing her eyes, feeling the warmth and the strength of those two pairs of arms around her.

"A shower might be nice, though," Bruce commented softly, meeting Alfred's gaze.

The butler nodded. "For the three of us."

"And burn the clothes," Bruce added, plucking at the wet front of his shirt.

"Let's get you up," Alfred murmured, rising and helping Margot to her feet. "Master B, would you fetch a few fresh towels from the laundry room?"

Bruce nodded and hurried to do so.

As Alfred helped Margot upstairs, he noticed that she stared fixedly at her hands.

"What is it?" he asked softly, leading her into the bathroom.

She looked up sharply as he turned the light on. "It's gone," she whispered.

"What?"

"The ring." She held up her hand to show him.

He gently brushed it aside. "It's all right," he told her with a shake of his head. "You're here, Margot. Everything else can be replaced."

She nodded weakly. "Alfred, I—"

"Hush," he shushed her, nodding towards the shower, which he'd started. "Get in. Rinse your clothes off and we'll see what I can do with them."

"You aren't going to burn them, are you?" Margot seemed genuinely concerned for her clothes.

"We'll see."

Even after she'd thoroughly rinsed her clothes and pulled them off, the water ran brown for several minutes as Margot scrubbed the dirt from her body. The hot water helped the aching cold that had settled in her bones, but it stung on the multitude of cuts and scrapes on her skin. Several cuts on her forearms were particularly painful, and bled as she cleaned them.

When she finally emerged from the shower, she wrapped herself in a clean towel and examined her injuries. Most of them were superficial, probably from being tumbled by the current of the river. The ones on her arms were different though. The skin hadn't been scraped or torn away. It had been cut smoothly, as if by a knife.

"These are defensive wounds," she whispered to herself with a hint of dread.

A soft knock on the door preluded Alfred's entry. "Are you all right? Do you need anything?"

Margot shook her head. "No," she said. "I'll be all right."

He nodded. "There's a fresh change of clothes on the bed and a cup of tea for you. I'm going to take a shower now, if that's all right."

"Thank you," she said as he left.

Margot bandaged her arms as best as she could, not wanting to trouble Alfred for help. She emerged from the bathroom, dressed, and made her way to the butler's room, climbing under the covers of his bed and waiting for him there. She wanted to talk to him about what she'd seen, about what she feared, but she wasn't quite sure how to bring it up.

What came out was much more abrupt than she'd expected.

"I found a body," she blurted out when Alfred exited his bathroom with nothing but a towel around his waist.

"A body?" he echoed, glancing her way as he began to dress for bed.

"In the weeds, when I woke up on the bank. It looked like he'd been stabbed."

He regarded her thoughtfully. "Every second rate criminal in the city uses the river to dispose of evidence. He was probably the unfortunate victim of a crime gone wrong."

"What if I did it?"

Alfred looked sharply at her, his gaze interrupted as he pulled undershirt over his head. "Did you?"

Margot shook her head. "I don't know," she told him in earnest. "But look." She raised one of her arms to show him the bandages. "I found defensive wounds on my arms."

"Those could be from the accident. You could have dragged along the bottom of the river," he pointed out.

"They're cuts," she insisted. "From a knife."

"Do you remember receiving them?"

"No," she admitted. "I don't remember a single thing beyond waking up on the river bank."

"Margot, you've been gone for four days," he noted with a hint of concern.

"That's a long time to be unconscious," she said quietly. "What if I killed the man and blocked it out?" Seeing his skeptical look, she added defensively, "It's not unheard of. Especially with…especially with people like me."

He sighed and sat beside her on the bed, taking her cup of tea and placing it on the bedside table. With her hands in his, he looked her in the eye and asked, "Did you know the man?"

"I don't think so."

"Would you kill an innocent man for no reason at all?"

Margot hesitated before repeating slowly, "I don't think so."

"Then why, Margot? Tell me why you think you killed him."

She shrugged and avoided his gaze. "It's too coincidental," she whispered. "Out of all the places to wash ashore, why would I happen to wake up next to a dead body?"

"Margot, this is Gotham, for pity's sake. There could be a body hiding in every cluster of weeds." He squeezed her hands in his and added, "You're exhausted. You've been through a traumatic experience, and it's late now. You need to rest."

"I don't know if I can…"

"Look at me."

She looked up.

"You didn't kill that man," he assured her firmly. "I'll look at your injuries tomorrow, but right now you need sleep. Tomorrow's going to be a very long day."

Margot's brow furrowed. "Why?"

"You and Bruce need some time away from the city." Alfred emitted a low scoff and amended, "We _all_ need some time away. We're leaving tomorrow afternoon."

"Leaving?" Margot echoed. "Where are we going?"

"Switzerland, luv." Climbing over her to get to his side of the bed, he slid under the covers and turned to wrap his arms around her. "You'll love it."

Margot believed him. It was the part about having to return that worried her. She could run away, but the city and all of her problems would be waiting when she got back.


	45. Chapter Forty-Four

_Sorry for the long radio silence. Thanks for all the reviews/favorites/follows! I appreciate it._

* * *

 _"I just wanna stay in the sun where I find  
—I know it's hard sometimes—  
Pieces of peace in the sun's peace of mind  
—I know it's hard sometimes…  
_ _I've been thinking too much.  
_ _Help me."_

 _"Ride" Twenty-One Pilots_

* * *

Chapter Forty-Four:

"Alfred, I don't want to do this."

Margot peered down at the long white stretch of snow in front of her, still wobbling a little on her skis. She almost lost her balance and had to grab onto Alfred's arm to keep from landing on her backside for the third time in as many minutes. What had seemed easy down at the lodge suddenly looked much more intimidating.

"Use your poles," Alfred told her. "That's what they're for."

"Right." She dug the ends of both poles into the snow and found that they did help a bit. "I still don't want to do this. Can't I just ride the lift back down?"

"No." He pointed down the hillside at a small, dark figure that was already nearing the bottom, skiing down the slope with ease. "If Bruce can do it, you can," he encouraged her.

"Bruce doesn't have a bum leg," Margot muttered. Still, she could tell that Alfred wasn't going to let her back out.

"You'll be fine. I'll be right beside you. Come on."

Sighing, she nodded. "All right then. Let's get it over with."

Alfred, still not trusting her, waited for her to push off first before following. It was an easy run, and Margot only fell at the bottom, when she tried to stop and lost her balance.

Laughing, Bruce slid up to her and offered her a hand up. "Not bad for your first time," he admitted with a smile.

"Right," chuckled Alfred as he joined them. "Did you see that form, Master B?" He imitated Margot's wobbling, imbalanced skiing.

"It was my first time!" she retorted defensively.

"Well, the only way to get better is if you practice," he noted pointedly, indicating the ski lift, which was conveniently nearby.

"Really?" Margot groaned. "Why don't you two just go on ahead? I'll wait for you in the lodge."

But neither Bruce or Alfred were having any of it. Alfred was right, anyway. If Bruce could do it, she could. The boy had been sulky and pensive since they'd arrived at the chalet, but she'd seen the look on his face when Alfred had suggested that they go skiing. Distaste at first, reluctance to do something so trivial. But then, looking up at his butler, his expression had softened. Alfred wanted nothing more than to see him enjoying things like a normal child his age, silently pleading with him not to trade his childhood away too soon.

Sometimes, even the most dedicated people needed a break.

Bruce had temporarily set aside his own desires for the sake of his butler's sanity. Couldn't Margot brave a bit of skiing for the chance to spend time with them?

It was like riding her motorbike, she told herself, feeling the wind biting her face, the smooth sensation of the snow beneath her skis. Except that didn't really help. Every time she tumbled, she felt that jolting sensation of hitting the back of the truck, soaring over the guardrail, falling for what seemed like forever. It didn't matter how small the fall, every single stumble jerked her back to the scene of the accident for a split second, and she felt the terror of almost dying all over again.

But it wouldn't do for her to express such fears. That's not what soldiers did, not in her experience. And wasn't she a soldier? A Marine? Buckle down and bite the bullet, she told herself. For God's sake, she'd nearly been blown apart before—what was a motorbike accident, or a tumble in the snow compared to that?

Her leg made things more difficult than necessary. The smallest irregularity on the slope—a small bump, a rut, a bit of ice—would immediately cause her to collapse, sending her skidding several yards down the slope on her backside. Her bad knee had been acting up since they'd arrived, probably because of the cold.

Bruce and Alfred kept teasing her, which only seemed to make her more determined to show that she could learn to ski. Eventually, she felt daring enough to try one of the harder slopes, if only to stop the teasing. It was all in good fun for them, but for her it was a challenge, and she never turned down a challenge.

The piste she had in mind was of intermediate level, running directly beneath the lift. As they rode to the top, Margot could see other skiers zig-zagging dexterously between the large metal beams below.

"What happens if you hit one of those?" she wondered aloud.

Bruce glanced down. "They pad them in case that happens," he reassured her.

"You'd still get a nasty conk on the nut," Alfred murmured.

It wasn't reassuring, especially not when Margot stood wobbling at the top of the piste, staring down the long expanse of groomed snow. It seemed narrower than before, with less room between the trees and the support beams of the lift.

"How—?"

Before she could finish voicing her reservations, Bruce was pushing off, shouting, "Race you to the bottom!"

"Go!" Alfred bellowed encouragingly to her.

Suddenly, Margot was off, gathering speed, trying not to think about all the things she could crash into—the beams, the trees, other skiers—and how much it would hurt. She resisted the urge to slow down or simply stop entirely. Bruce was close; she was catching up.

She was almost on top of him when he abruptly cut in front of her. Panicking, Margot swerved, overcorrecting. A big black beam loomed in front of her for a split second before her skis punctured the padding fastened around it.

This probably saved her life, or at least several bones.

Her boots came loose from the skis, and she flew past the beam, tumbled down the slope, losing her poles, her gloves, her goggles. Everything went black for a moment. When she opened her eyes again, the sky above her was incredibly blue, the snow gleaming with such whiteness that she had to squint to see.

Alfred leaned over her, and she saw every detail of his face with unusual clarity. "You all right, luv?" he inquired with concern.

Margot couldn't answer. She couldn't breathe. She panicked for a moment before a deep cough shook itself from her frame and frigid air came rushing into her lungs again.

She groaned, letting Alfred help her sit up. "Just sore," she wheezed, testing her limbs, gingerly prodding her head. She hurt, but nothing was broken. Her fingers and toes burned with cold. "Where are my socks?"

The tumble, it seemed, had knocked even her socks off.

Collecting her things, Alfred slowly accompanied her down to the bottom of the hill, where they met Bruce.

"I'm sorry, Margot, I didn't see you," the boy apologized profusely.

She waved it off with a shake of her head. "It's fine," she reassured him. She'd gathered her wits a little more and was starting to feel the effects of the adrenaline shock, which made her more than a little giddy. In a way, it was almost like being drunk.

"Perhaps we'd better take a break," the butler suggested gently. "Let's get you both inside and warmed up."

"How warm?" Margot inquired curiously, giving Alfred a meaningful look.

He raised an eyebrow and responded suggestively, "How warm do you want to be?"

Bruce groaned and rolled his eyes. "I'm beginning to wonder if this is the honeymoon and I'm just a third wheel."

"Don't be ridiculous," Margot scoffed. "We all know who's the third wheel in this boys' club of yours."

"That's right," Alfred agreed, confiding to Bruce, "I only kiss her to shut her up."

A loosely packed wad of snow hit him in the back of the head. "Oi!"

"Watch it," Margot warned him as he whirled to face her.

Bruce only laughed.

* * *

It was dark and cold. Margot pulled her jacket collar up and crossed her arms tightly across her torso, tucking her hands under her arms. The endless traffic of the city blinked and blared below, like some odd and noisy deep-sea creature, its tentacles trailing through the city streets.

She glanced through her scope, keeping a close eye on the lit glass doors across the street below. The target hadn't arrived yet.

"Hurry up," she muttered, wishing she'd thought to bring a thermos of hot coffee or something to warm her.

People filed in and out of the building, obscuring her view. None of them were familiar to her. What if the target was aware of the danger? What if he'd snuck out the back way to avoid her?

There.

There he was, standing silhouetted in the doorway. A black town car had pulled up on the curb, and he began to walk towards it. She only had a few seconds in which to act.

Her finger squeezed the trigger smoothly, the rifle jerked against her shoulder, and the bullet pierced straight through her target's skull. There he lay on the ground, face calm, despite the pandemonium that erupted around him. He hadn't even had time to be surprised.

Bruce Wayne was dead.

* * *

Margot sat up abruptly, clutching her heart, gasping for breath, her mouth dry.

"What is it?" Alfred's groggy voice drew her out of her panicked state.

"Nothing," she whispered hoarsely, shaking her head. "A nightmare."

Alfred didn't ask what it was about. He simply opened his arms and pulled her into his embrace. Margot wondered guiltily if he'd still hold her like that if he knew what she'd dreamt about.

"Thank you," she told him, her face buried in his shoulder.

He petted her hair with a hand, kissing her on the forehead and murmuring, "Margot, luv, I hate seeing you like this."

"I don't know what's wrong with me," Margot admitted. "I feel like I'm slowly unraveling and I don't know how to stop it."

Alfred was quiet, worried. He held her close until she fell into restless sleep, plagued by yet another nightmare.

* * *

Margot woke to the soft touch of lips on her forehead. Afraid it wasn't real, she kept her eyes closed and was careful not to stir. A moment later, lips brushed her chin, her mouth, her nose, her cheek. When they reached the corner where her jaw and ear met, she couldn't keep herself from shivering and letting out a soft laugh.

"Gotcha," Alfred whispered triumphantly.

She opened her eyes, meeting the man's calm blue gaze.

"Morning, sunshine," he greeted her with a smile.

"Morning," she whispered in response, slowly sitting up.

Alfred was already freshly showered and dressed, looking suspiciously pleased with himself. Glancing around, Margot saw why. He'd prepared an elaborate breakfast, which waited for Margot on a tray on the bedside table. Muesli with cold cream and fresh fruit; savory French crepes with a filling of mushrooms, spinach, and gruyere cheese; toast with black currant preserves; and a mug of hot chocolate with a generous dollop of whipped cream on top.

"I hope you intend to help me eat all this," Margot said, looking up at Alfred.

"I'm afraid I've already had my breakfast," he told her regretfully. "I've got to get down to the study to help Master Bruce."

"It doesn't matter what country he's in, does it?" she noted with amusement. "He's always in the study."

Alfred chuckled. "We're all creatures of habit in the end, aren't we?" He paused, frowning thoughtfully, and added, "The boy's anxious to return to Gotham."

"Well, I for one am dreading it," Margot admitted honestly.

The man smiled wanly and nodded. "If I could, I'd keep him here under lock and key, but…" He shrugged. "There's nothing to be done, no stopping him."

"He's like an avalanche," she agreed pensively.

"Well, I'll leave you to your breakfast before it gets cold. Tuck in." Alfred turned to leave, but he didn't make it far before something called him back. "Margot?"

"Yeah?" she looked up, pausing with a bite of crepe en route to her mouth.

"There's one more thing." Alfred approached again, sitting down beside her on the edge of the bed. "I've been thinking about that night we nearly lost you. We've replaced nearly everything—your ID, your cards, your keys—except one thing."

Margot took a sharp breath in, watching as Alfred pulled something from his pocket.

A ring. This one was simpler, smaller—apparently the butler didn't have entirely unending funds.

"Alfred," she whispered in a choked voice.

He took her hand in his, intending to slip the ring on her finger, but she retracted her hand.

"Oh, go on. Don't tell me I have to ask the question all over again too." He looked up with a teasing smile, which vanished when he saw the expression on her face. "What's wrong, Margot?"

She shook her head. "Alfred, I can't."

He frowned in consternation. "What do you mean, you can't?"

Margot sighed heavily and stared down at her hands, which she had clenched in her lap. "I don't think I'm ready," she explained reluctantly. "There are things that I need to take care of, questions that I need answered first."

"What questions? Margot, I thought we were partners. I thought we did these things together. No more secrets."

"I need to know what happened to me while I was gone." She raised her forearms, showing him the healing scars on them. "Where did these come from? Why did I wake up next to a dead man?"

"It doesn't matter," Alfred replied, taking her hands in his. "You're here. You're safe. That's all that matters."

"It matters to me," Margot insisted. "And I'm going to find out."

Alfred looked down at the floor, subdued. "What does this mean then? Will you be leaving us?"

Margot shook her head emphatically. "No! Why would you even think that?" she demanded. "I just want to take a step back," she explained. "Things can stay exactly the same as they were. Just no more wedding plans for now, that's all."

A muscle in his jaw worked, and his lips pursed in thought. He was quiet for a long time. "Yeah, all right," he agreed eventually, glancing up at her with a wan smile. "Whatever you think is best. I trust your judgement."

Margot smiled back warmly, wrapping her arms around him and holding him in a tight embrace. "Thank you," she whispered gratefully.

He nodded and slowly got to his feet, bidding her a quiet farewell. Margot watched him leave, feeling slimy and unpleasant inside. She'd been honest with the man; she could hardly be angry at herself for that. But no matter what logic told her, she couldn't help feeling terrible.

Even though she'd told him that nothing would change—and she wanted to believe more than anything that things would stay the same, that she would work through whatever was wrong with her and then she could have that happily-ever-after ending—she had a bad feeling.

Something was definitely going to change.

And soon.


	46. Chapter Forty-Five

_"I don't know how I reached this place,  
So far from heaven, so far from grace.  
_ _And I want to give in to the pressure,  
_ _'Cause I feel like the city's got the better of me.  
_ _I'm so tired of all this searching.  
_ _Do I, do I, do I, do I  
_ _Go home to nothing or stay out for more?  
_ _Give in to someone or lock down my door?  
_ _Or drown all my shadows, drown them like before?  
_ _Drowning shadows once more…"_

 _"Drowning Shadows" –Sam Smith_

* * *

Chapter Forty-Five:

"Looks abandoned," Margot murmured, gazing fixedly through the car window as they drove up to the manor. She was feeling sad, in an anxious sort of way. Usually it felt good to come home after a long time away, like a relief. Even when she'd returned home in a wheelchair, just another wounded veteran with her knee torn to pieces, she'd been relieved to be in a familiar place.

This time, though, all she could think about was the pile of problems that she'd left behind. It felt like they'd grown out of control, just like the neglected grounds they passed on their way in.

"Well, it has been a while," Alfred pointed out as he pulled up to the garage and parked the car. The garage door was old and had to be opened manually. Margot watched as he stepped out and started to push the large door aside.

"I thought you hired a caretaker while we were gone," she commented, opening the trunk and starting to remove the luggage. Bruce quietly joined her and began to help unload.

"Yeah," Alfred replied, slightly breathless, straining as the door stuck. "Stan. You know him; he's done the odd job here and there."

"Doesn't look like he did much for the grounds," Margot pointed out, glancing pointedly at the wilted snapdragons in a nearby planter.

"He mostly looks after the house," puffed Alfred. The stubborn garage door finally gave way with one last heave, and he added in a low grumble, "I really ought to grease this door." Glancing up, he caught sight of all the luggage resting on the driveway and sighed. "You could've waited till I pulled the car in, you know."

"We weren't sure you'd get that door open," Margot teased.

Even Bruce, who'd been quiet and stoic during the entire trip back, seemed amused.

Alfred, on the other hand, was less than amused by her quip. "Maybe _you_ should grease the door," he retorted in a low voice as he lifted a suitcase in each hand.

"Not me." Margot shook her head with a smile. "I'm just the gardener."

Alfred had turned away by then, but she suspected he was rolling his eyes.

They took the luggage inside, leaving it by the table in the kitchen. It required two trips—they'd been gone for several months.

"Well, that should be the last of it," Alfred sighed when they were finished, swinging his bag from his shoulder and onto the back of a chair. "I'll put the kettle on. There's nothing like a sweet cup of tea to make home feel like home after a long trip away, hey, Master Bruce?" He immediately sloughed out of his overcoat and draped it on the back of the chair as well.

Margot thought he was talking a lot, more than usual—as if the sound could fill the emptiness of the house. She'd almost forgotten how spacious it was.

Bruce didn't seem to be listening, quiet as he took in his surroundings, familiar but cold. It was almost as if part of him still expected to turn a corner and find a friendly face waiting for him. Every time he left, coming back the house was just another reminder of how empty it was. His parents died again every time he returned home.

At least, that's what Margot thought.

"You all right?" Once more, Alfred's voice broke the stillness.

Bruce turned, facing his butler with a look of concern that was well beyond his tender years. "Were we right to leave, Alfred? Stay away all this time?"

Margot sensed a serious conversation coming, the kind of father-son or butler-employer talk that was best done in private, and she was about to make an excuse and duck out when Alfred cast a look in her direction.

"Well," he said in a serious voice, his eyes twinkling mischievously, "Considering the appalling sight of the topiary, I should say absolutely bloody not."

Margot shot him a dirty look. "Oi, mate," she imitated his own gruff voice, "I don't go peeking around in all the drawers, getting on your case for all the silver that's gone unpolished while we've been gone."

Alfred turned to her. "Maybe you ought to do a little more peeking into drawers, treacle."

She was about to retort when Bruce interrupted, solemn and stoic as ever.

"Alfred, you know what I mean."

She could see the butler sigh, his shoulders droop for a moment, before he steeled himself and approached the boy. "I know you know why we left," he told Bruce.

Margot watched curiously. Alfred was standing close to Bruce, shoulders back, hands clasped behind his back, like a soldier at an inspection. It was an unconscious thing, something that happened after years of training and drilling. He did that though, every time he confronted Bruce about serious matters. He got in close enough to pull the boy into a hug, or clap a hand on his shoulder, but rarely did he ever do that. He always seemed to stop just out of reach, reverting right back to his stiff military stance. There was no question that he cared for the boy, loved him like his own flesh and blood, but even now, he still struggled with showing that affection outright.

Almost as if he thought he shouldn't; it wasn't his place, even after all the long, strenuous hours he'd put into looking after the boy.

"We had to leave," Bruce agreed quietly after a moment.

"You're nervous about tomorrow, aren't you?" Alfred noted, gazing at the boy with that piercing look that seemed to be able to divine his thoughts.

"Yes," Bruce admitted.

"Well, you wouldn't be human if you weren't," he replied, practical as ever.

Margot leaned up against the wall, smiling slightly to herself as she watched. Never one to butter up the truth with tiny little lies or trivial comforts. If things were going to be difficult, Alfred Pennyworth was not the man to say they'd be easy, just for the sake of bolstering a young man's courage.

"So," he continued, pointing towards the door, "Why don't you go through there, take a pew, pop your feet up, and I'll see about that lovely cup of tea. All right?"

Margot saw a small, tentative smile warm Bruce's face. He knew his butler cared deeply, in his own way.

Still, the boy's footsteps seemed heavier than normal as he made his way from the room.

She was quiet, staring fixedly at the floor, unmoving while Alfred puttered around the kitchen. After a few minutes, while he was waiting for the kettle to boil, he murmured, "You're suspiciously quiet."

"What's tomorrow?" she asked, glancing up.

"Master B wants to address the board at Wayne Enterprises." When Margot frowned, he added in explanation, "He's trying to suss out that secret council, the one that supposedly runs Gotham."

"Right." She nodded. "He thinks they're connected to the company." Frowning, she asked, "Do you think it's safe for him to pursue them like this? Some shady council of people who want to stay hidden? You think they'll like him poking around?"

"And you think I can stop him?" Alfred scoffed.

"No—" Margot began.

"You're bloody right, I can't," he responded heatedly. "No, all I can do is stay on him like a bloody shadow and pray to God I can protect him."

Margot reached out, touching the butler's worn face, smoothing out the creases of worry. She thought she could see a couple of new lines, despite their long break away from the city, away from the investigation that was Bruce's constant obsession. "Hey," she whispered encouragingly, "You're doing all you can."

"Let's hope it's enough."

He'd leaned into her hand, and she took that as an encouraging sign. She leaned forward, pressing her lips to his. They hadn't kissed in what felt like a long time, despite what she'd said about nothing changing. It still felt good, she thought, despite everything. He lingered for a moment before pulling away, murmuring something about watching the kettle so it wouldn't boil over.

Margot didn't stop him. Somehow, despite her own feelings, that brief kiss had felt more like an obligation of his than a show of affection from him.

That's why, after a hot cup of tea and a light dinner, she was surprised when Alfred stopped by her room that night. She'd expected him to disappear to his own rooms, avoid what was an awkward situation.

At first, he'd seemed willing enough to go along with Margot's plan to call off the engagement, to take a step back. But that was the problem. What she saw as a step back, he seemed to see as an obstruction that needed removal. To Margot, it was like returning to familiar territory, stashing a complication in a box and shelving it until she could deal with it. But for Alfred, that wasn't an option. A problem was something to address immediately and fix as quickly and completely as possible.

When he appeared in her doorway, she was a little worried that fixing was what he intended to do.

"How are you?" he asked, leaning on the doorframe, giving her a tired smile.

"All right. Tired," she replied.

"May I?" He gestured towards her, asking permission to enter.

Margot nodded. "Yeah," she said, moving over a little to make room for him on the bed. He didn't join her, choosing to sit in a nearby chair instead.

She waited for him to say something, but he didn't speak at first, fastidiously uncuffing his sleeves and rolling them up, pocketing his cufflinks. In the silence, Margot could hear faint scratching beyond the ceiling, the scrabbling of tiny claws in the attic.

Alfred noticed her glance upwards.

"Rats," he said quietly. "Seems like they moved in while we were away."

"I don't blame them," she answered with a shrug. "It's cold outside."

He nodded, shifting uncomfortably. "Still, I'm not sure how much sleep we'll get tonight, not with them scurrying around up there." The man frowned, his lips pursed. After a moment, he growled, "They could be amassing a small army for all we know."

Margot scoffed softly. "A rat army would be the least of our problems."

She meant it jokingly, but she saw Alfred tense visibly at the remark. They'd done quite a good job at avoiding problems over the past few weeks, since Margot had told him not to give her a new ring.

"Sorry," she apologized. "I didn't mean—"

Alfred raised a hand to stop her. "I know," he reassured her. Glancing around the room, he asked, "Are you sure you're all right? I can't get you anything?"

"I'm fine," she told him, wanting more than anything to tell him he could join her, keep her warm, commiserate with her about the rats all night long. If they weren't going to get any sleep anyway, they might as well make some noise of their own.

Just as she was about to say something, though, Alfred stood. "I'll let you rest then." He glanced through the window and added, "Tomorrow's going to be a long day."

"The board meeting?" she asked, hoping he'd stay just a moment longer.

He looked at her, a wry smile playing on his lips. "No, it'll be a long day for you. That topiary won't trim itself."

"Thanks," Margot retorted through a grimace. At least he could still tease her. That gave her some small amount of hope, even as he crossed the room to leave.

He paused for a moment as he reached the doorway and glanced back. "I have another project to take care of tomorrow, if you want a respite from working out in the cold."

"Rat extermination?" she guessed tentatively. "No, thank you."

"God, no," he chuckled. "We'll hire someone to do that. I'm having a new security system installed tomorrow. You should stick around. It would be good if the two of us both knew how it works."

Margot didn't have to ask why the butler wanted a new security system, though the idea didn't really make her feel any safer. At best, it would give them a couple of minutes' warning, if an intruder wasn't careful enough to avoid tripping an alarm. In fact, she was fairly certain that even Bruce could outsmart the system; it probably wouldn't stop a determined criminal. Most likely, it would be Margot tripping it herself in the middle of the night, on her way to the kitchen for a drink.

She didn't voice her thoughts, though. She just nodded. "All right. Goodnight, Alfred."

He reached for the light, turning it out. "Goodnight, Margot."

* * *

The next morning was gray and cold, with a steady drizzle of rain that was so fine, it might have just been mist. It was the perfect sort of day to stay inside with all the lights on, drinking hot tea and reading a book.

Margot thought wistfully of doing just that as she prowled through the grounds, making mental notes of what needed to be done, her collar pulled up around her ears.

She'd been up early, before the sun, though that was no large feat so late in autumn. Tempted to relax, make a hot breakfast, have a late start, instead she'd simply dressed and gone out to work without so much as a piece of toast for breakfast. Glancing up at the manor, she noticed lights on—Bruce and Alfred were already awake and preparing for that board meeting.

Maybe it was the weather, or just the fact that she was back in Gotham and had to face reality again, but Margot felt a peculiar sense of unease. It only got worse as Alfred pulled the car around, letting Bruce in and driving out towards the road. She waved, and Alfred waved back, but it was a distant sort of farewell.

Once they were gone, she turned toward the east side of the manor and regarded her old nemesis, the wisteria, with a sigh. It was brown and overgrown, covering the windows with its vine-like branches.

"Hello, you," she said, pressing her hand to the knotted, twisted wood. Something sharp pricked her hand, and she pulled back with a grimace, seeing blood. "Thanks a lot. Nice to see you again too," she growled. It didn't even faze her that she was talking to a plant. She did that all the time. In fact, she'd sort of missed it while she'd been away.

She hadn't missed the wisteria.

"I'll be back for you," she warned it, trudging her way back to the gardening shed to find her shears.

It was nearly noon before Bruce and Alfred returned. She heard the car pull up, caught a glimpse of the familiar black gleam of Alfred's town car before it disappeared behind the house. Well, it was time for a break, she thought. She could do with a fresh change of clothes anyway; they were soaked through by the misty rain, which had only just let up.

She found both Bruce and Alfred in the kitchen, Bruce with a large stack of pancakes that seemed to have just been placed in front of him.

"How did things go?" Margot asked from the doorway, stepping out of her boots to avoid tracking mud across the floor.

"Our young Mr. Wayne here carried himself quite well, didn't you, Master B?" Alfred replied with a proud smile.

Bruce flushed a little and ducked his head, as if he could avoid the butler's praise. Instead of responding, he took a large bite of pancake.

Usually not one to avoid an opportunity to tease, Margot thought she'd do the boy a favor for once and change the subject. "Smells good in here."

"Care for pancakes?" Alfred offered.

She nodded and took a seat next to Bruce, taking the mug of hot coffee that Alfred handed to her. He slid a couple of pancakes onto a plate for her, and Bruce nudged a small pitcher of syrup her way.

"I'll get you a towel," Alfred said.

Margot opened her mouth to protest, but he was already gone.

"Sounds like you gave the board a thorough what for," she noted, turning to Bruce. "Otherwise Alfred wouldn't be so proud of you."

The boy smiled slightly. "I did what was necessary," he responded modestly.

"It's weird," she admitted, "Seeing you so grown up." Eyeing his plate, she added with a soft laugh, "Although you still cut the crusts off your pancakes. Don't see how that helps, really. Technically the whole pancake is a crust."

That got a little laugh out of him. "It is not," he protested. "And anyway, yours are practically floating away in all that syrup you've drenched them in."

"True," Margot agreed, turning back to her own breakfast.

Alfred returned after a moment, warm towel in hand. Margot had come to appreciate the butler's habit for throwing towels in the dryer for a few minutes. As she wrung out her hair, Alfred remarked, "You could wear a hat, you know. Or a decent coat."

Margot grimaced. "I like this jacket, thank you, and I hate hats. I'm fine."

The butler simply shrugged and sighed, turning to a sizeable pile of mail that was waiting on the counter. He started to sort absently through the letters, separating them into different stacks. Margot picked up a booklet of coupons and let out a soft scoff.

"You'd think people would realize they hardly need to send these here. I can't imagine the two of you couponing much."

Alfred raised an eyebrow. "Maybe you'd like to use them."

She flipped to one of the last pages and noted, "Well, they are running a special on crossbows at the superstore this weekend."

The look the butler shot her made her laugh. "Don't worry," she reassured him. "I'm not in the market. For now."

Alfred ignored her pointedly. After a moment, he tossed a letter at her. "For you. Didn't know you had anyone to write you."

"I don't," she murmured, but there it was, her name on the envelope. It felt heavier than usual, and there was a lump in one corner, as if it contained a small object.

"Who's it from?" Bruce inquired, glancing at the envelope.

Margot shrugged and showed it to him. "No return address."

"You should open it," he encouraged her.

"Hand me that knife over there."

She was about to open it when the buzzer for the front gate sounded. Somebody had entered the grounds.

Alfred checked the time on his watch and let out a soft curse. "It's the security consultant." He glanced up at Margot. "Are you coming?"

"Yeah," she replied, remembering that she'd agreed to come help figure out the new security system. She stood and stuffed the letter into her back pocket, where it remained forgotten until later that night, when she was undressing for bed.

It fell out of her pocket, and she stepped on it, letting out a groan of pain when something sharp stabbed her foot.

"Damn it, that hurts," she cursed through her teeth, bending to pick up the envelope and stumbling towards her bed, where she sat.

Tearing the envelope open, she pulled out what looked like a single slip of paper. Unfolding it, she read in large black letters:

WE KNOW WHAT YOU DID

Pulse racing, she tipped the envelope over and something dropped into her lap. Her eyes went wide, her hand trembling as she picked it up.

It was her engagement ring—the first one—the one she thought she'd lost when she'd fallen into the river.

Panicking, Margot stood and limped to the fireplace, tossing both letter and envelope into the flames, holding her arms around herself as she watched the paper twist and curl and slowly burn to black. Shivering, she rolled the ring between her fingers, biting her lip until it bled. When she was sure the letter had been destroyed, she opened the drawer of her bedside table and placed the ring far in the back.

How could anyone know what she'd done when even she didn't know? She couldn't remember anything from those four days she'd been missing. She only recalled falling a long way, and then waking up on the bank next to that horridly bloated corpse.

For all she knew, she'd killed that man.

She went for the door, seemed to think better of it, and retreated. Twice more she did that, until finally she seemed to bolster enough courage to leave the room.

Margot found Alfred in his sitting room, sitting comfortably in a chair and scanning the paper. She half considered slipping away before he noticed her in the doorway, wondering how she could ruin what seemed to be a relaxing night.

Before she could make a decision, he glanced up, his eyes regarding her over the edge of his paper. "Margot." He folded the newspaper up and dropped it on the end table. "What is it?"

She hesitated, finally breathing out, "Alfred, can we talk?"

"You all right?" he asked.

"Yeah," she replied, unable to keep her voice from shaking. Her mind was spinning, reeling with all the possibilities. What if whoever had written that letter knew more than what had happened on the river bank? What if they knew about her side job as an assassin? What if they turned her into the police?

Something held her shoulders firmly—Alfred. She hadn't noticed him rise, much less approach. He held her gaze, his eyes filled with concern. "What is it?"

Margot shrugged. How was she supposed to explain everything to him when she could barely talk? "I…" she trailed off hopelessly.

Alfred touched her face, sensing her reluctance. "Give me a minute," he suggested. "I'll just pop downstairs and make certain the alarm's set. Then we'll settle down for the night, and you can tell me what this is all about."

Margot nodded. She could probably use a few moments to gather herself.

He seemed perplexed and worried. "Can I bring you something? A warm cuppa?"

She shook her head.

"Right. I'll just be a moment."

She sat on the edge of his bed once he'd left, waiting for him to return, trying to figure out what to say. Groaning, she collapsed and tucked her face deeply into one of his pillows. She missed that smell, that feeling of intimate familiarity. She just wanted him to hold her, to tell her she'd be safe.

She was tired of being strong and brave.

Alfred certainly was taking his time. Or maybe it simply felt like she'd been waiting a long time. How long had he been gone? She heard something clatter faintly downstairs, a muffled shout that was abruptly cut off.

Rising to her feet, Margot quickly descended the stairs, making her way to the study. She passed a sensor at the bottom of the stairs and noticed that the alarm didn't go off. The system hadn't been set yet.

"Alfred?" she called. "Bruce?"

No answer.

Something was definitely wrong.

She pushed herself into a stumbling, limping run, still calling out. "Bruce! Alfred!"

Nothing.

The light in the study was out, but the fire that dwindled in the fireplace cast a warm glow over the room. She noticed a lamp lying on its side, several picture frames and vases knocked from a mantle. And there, stretched out prone amid the debris, lay Alfred.

Margot's breath left her.

She stumbled towards the man, checking for breath, for a pulse. "Thank God," she gasped, feeling his vitals still strong. He was just unconscious.

Glancing around, she shouted, "Bruce!"

Nothing.

"Bruce!"

She stood on shaky legs and searched the room, but the boy wasn't there. She was about to check the rest of the manor when something fluttered on the edge of her vision. The gauzy drapes flapped gently in the breeze from the window. It was open.

Pulling the drapes aside, Margot pushed the window farther open and peered out into the darkness. In the planter just below the sill, mashed into the soft dirt, she saw a set of large footprints leading away from the house.

Somebody had entered the manor uninvited, knocked Alfred unconscious, and Margot suspected that the mysterious intruder had taken Bruce.

She heard a faint groan from behind her and whirled around to see Alfred stirring.

"Alfred!" She limped to his side, kneeling beside him. "What happened? Bruce is missing! What the hell happened? What do we do?"

The man held up a hand, wincing and shaking his head slowly. He looked up at her, meeting her gaze with his. "Bruce is missing?"

She nodded. "What do we do?"

His face was creased with concern, his shoulders bowed. "What can we do?" he asked with heavy dismay.

"Well, there's got to be a trail we can follow, some lead. Did you get a good look at your attacker?"

"Look, some shadowy bloke comes in, knocks me clean out, and steals away with Master B, and all this just hours after he makes a challenge to a secret cabal."

"So they have him."

"I assume so," he agreed, adding hopelessly, "but there's nowhere to look, Margot. I don't even know where to begin looking."

"Then let's call the police," she suggested.

To her surprise, Alfred shook his head again. "Let's not escalate things just yet."

She looked at him in utter consternation, unable to believe what she was hearing. "What?"

"Look," he explained, "that fella had a blade on him this long—" he held up his hands to show her "—but he didn't kill me, though he very well could've. The fact that I'm still alive makes me think they don't want to kill him, or else they would've done it already and left us all for dead. Why go to the effort of moving him? Leaving me alive if they were just going to kill him?"

"So what do we do then?" Margot demanded anxiously.

Alfred sighed and ran a hand over his hair. "We wait, and if by morning he hasn't returned, then we go to the GCPD with everything we know."

She had to admit it was a sensible plan, but she couldn't make her feelings agree. "Damn it," she cursed. "Why did we have to come back?"

Alfred shook his head. "I'm asking myself the same question."


	47. Chapter Forty-Six

_I apologize for the long hiatus. Hopefully I'll be able to post more frequently now, but I can't promise anything. Here's a thank you though for sticking it out with me to this point. Hope you enjoy!_

* * *

 _"And so they say lord, for everything a reason,  
For every ending a new beginning.  
Oh so they say baby, for everything a reason…  
And those who loved before will be brought back together,  
Yeah those who loved before will be brought back together.  
And so they say baby, for everything a reason,  
And so they say baby you will be brought back to me."_

 _"For Everything a Reason" –Carina Round_

* * *

Chapter Forty-Six:

Margot prowled the corridors, checking the windows, the doors, looking for signs of entry at first. After several hours, though, she had to admit that it was more out of restlessness than usefulness. She couldn't simply sit around and wait, especially not when there was no indication of how the kidnapper had even gotten past the security system in the first place.

She paced towards the entryway for the seventeenth time that night, blinking the sting out of her tired eyes. An antique grandfather clock chimed from somewhere nearby, the time echoing throughout the silent house. Four o'clock.

Finally, she reached the security pad and took yet another look at it. She was baffled, not just by the ridiculous number of tiny buttons, but by the fact that someone had managed to sneak through security. Every window, every doorway, every entrance and exit to and from the manor was covered.

Mostly, though, Margot was surprised that she found it so surprising. Of course somebody had figured out a way to get through the security. This was Gotham, after all, and confronting a clandestine group of powerful people was not a safe move.

She sighed and rubbed her eyes. It was nearly morning. If Bruce didn't return soon, they'd be calling the police.

Turning away, Margot had hardly taken two steps when a shrill alarm pierced the silence. She clapped her hands over her ears and hurried back to the security pad, punching buttons at random to get the noise to stop.

Soon she heard running footsteps approach, and Alfred was suddenly there, moving her aside and punching in the code.

"You all right?" he asked once the alarm had successfully been shut off.

"Yeah. I must have accidentally tripped it."

"I gave you the code," he pointed out.

"Right, and I'm supposed to be able to string a list of random numbers together with that racket going on," she retorted.

Alfred shook his head and sighed, "Damn it, Margot, you nearly gave me a bloody heart attack."

Scowling for a moment longer, Margot let her shoulders fall, and she shook her head too. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

Reaching for her, Alfred pulled her closer and held her in a tight embrace. "It's all right." Even as he reassured her, she could feel him shaking, either from exhaustion or worry or both.

"I hate this," she grumbled into his shoulder.

"Yeah," he agreed, "So do I." He loosened his grip on her and reached for his fob watch, checking the time. "It's nearly morning," he noted. "Seems to me we should call the police." He sounded reluctant to say it, like he didn't want to give up hope. He probably didn't even want to fathom the idea that Bruce could be hurt—that he might not return at all.

Margot was quiet.

"I'll do it," Alfred suggested after a moment. "Why don't you make us a cup of tea?"

"You and your tea," she scoffed weakly.

"You'd be surprised by its soothing and restorative properties," Alfred replied knowingly.

"I find whiskey soothing and restorative," she retorted.

It was his turn to scoff. "At this point, you'd likely drink the entire bottle and find yourself retching in the bathroom. How would that look to the police?"

"Tea, then," she growled.

She'd only just put water in the kettle when she heard Alfred calling to her from the study. His voice barely reached the kitchen; she thought she'd imagined it at first. But then she heard her name called again, more urgent the second time.

She barely remembered to turn off the stove before she went running to the study. There she found Alfred, crouched beside one of the sofas, with Bruce tightly ensconced in his arms.

"My God—!" she gasped, hurrying forward. "Bruce! Where have you been?"

The young man stood, shaking as he ran his hands through his hair. He was obviously distressed. "I saw them," he whispered. "I spoke to them."

Alfred exchanged a worried look with Margot. "And?" he prompted.

"It worked." He turned, his face twisted with an anguish that didn't seem to match what he was saying. "They agreed."

Margot frowned. Shouldn't they be celebrating? Why did Bruce seem so upset?

Alfred also seemed confused. "What, just—just like that? I mean, you talked about the stuff that we talked about, right?"

"Yes. But I had to promise not to investigate them anymore. Not Indian Hill, not the corruption within my company, not my parents' murder."

Suddenly it made sense, Bruce's distress. For over two years, he'd dedicated himself to uncovering the truth. Even when she'd first seen him huddled on that bench in the rain, when the murder was still fresh, Margot had noticed a sharp gleam in his eyes, a need for the truth, a need for justice. He'd risked everything to learn the truth, and now he was being told to let it go?

Sure, it meant he'd be safe. They'd all be safer. But she and Alfred had both dedicated and rededicated themselves to Bruce's cause, despite the danger. They were prepared to face the consequences. What would his consequence be if he suddenly just gave up?

Alfred struggled to find words. Margot could see the same battle going on within him. Part of him was pleased, and he didn't hide it well. She knew he cared for the boy's safety more than anything. But part of him also understood that Bruce couldn't live a simple, safe life. Part of him wondered if he could give up his search for the truth.

"I see," he finally said, staring at the floor.

Bruce could tell the man struggling to comprehend his decision. "Alfred, it was the only way," he said, stepping forward.

Hearing the pain in the boy's voice, Alfred looked up and met his gaze. He placed a hand on Bruce's shoulder and squeezed it comfortingly, drawing the boy nearer. Realization was dawning in his eyes. "You weren't the only one they threatened, were you? Hey?" His gaze flickered to Margot.

She inhaled sharply. So that was it. It made sense, suddenly. Of course Bruce wouldn't promise to give up his search, not even if it meant risking his life. But there were people that were dear to him, Alfred most of all.

Bruce drew back, looking away. "No."

There was a long silence, broken only by the crackling of the fire, which seemed uncomfortably loud.

"Do you intend on keeping your word?" asked Alfred, piercing Bruce with his stern blue gaze.

Bruce hesitated. He was trembling noticeably. "Yes," he finally whispered. "I do."

Margot saw the tenderness in Alfred's face as he looked at the boy. She could tell he wanted nothing more than to pull Bruce into a tight embrace, but he refrained. In a way, it was better, a show of his quiet approval. Bruce wasn't a child in need of comforting anymore. He was a young man, capable of making wise decisions, capable of sacrificing his needs for others. But there was still pain in Alfred's eyes as he watched the young man come to terms with what his decision meant.

After a moment, Alfred spoke, voicing his concerns. "And how do you know they will keep their word?"

Bruce looked at him as if he couldn't even fathom the idea.

"They'd better," Margot interjected from her place across the room. She had to resist the urge to crack her knuckles like some stereotypical heavy. The "or else" tone in her voice hung in the air.

"Well," Alfred said, "That's that then." He touched Bruce's shoulder, waiting for the boy to look up before offering him a comforting smile. "We'll worry about that when the time comes. Margot was just about to make tea. How about a cuppa?"

Bruce nodded numbly.

"Maybe you should make it," Margot muttered to Alfred as they made their way to the kitchen. "You do it best."

He raised an eyebrow. "Because I'm British?"

"Because you've been doing it longer, you ass," she retorted.

They were teasing each other, but there was a strained tone underneath their words. They were both preoccupied by the question that hung unanswered. What would Bruce do now that he'd given up the investigation that had once given him purpose?

* * *

Margot went to bed early that night, with the excuse that she was tired, but she couldn't sleep. It wasn't Bruce's decision that had her worried, though. He seemed to be coming around to it slowly. She rolled over and pulled her ring from the drawer, rolling it between her fingers.

Before, it had been a symbol of everything that made her happy. Alfred, a family, a home, a sense of belonging. Now it filled her with dread. What had she done? Who knew?

She wanted to tell Alfred, but she was afraid of involving him, especially now that Bruce had finally decided to step out of the shady world of threats and investigations. It could all amount to nothing, after all. What if they were just trying to scare her? Whoever wrote the note could just be using her fear to get to Bruce. She wouldn't be surprised if she was just another pawn in this game between him and those secretive people who seemed to want to stop him.

There wasn't much she could do about it anyway. She could only wait and see if they tried to contact her again.

Still, she didn't want to be alone.

Rising, she made her way to Alfred's rooms. The door was closed, but she saw light through the crack beneath the door, so she knocked. A moment later, the door opened, and Alfred frowned slightly.

"Margot, why aren't you asleep? It's late. You went to bed hours ago."

"I can't sleep," she said. Sighing, she added, "I don't want to be alone."

The man regarded her calmly, almost coolly. "I thought you wanted space," he reminded her.

She saw the hurt he was trying to hide. Of course. In her distress, she'd almost forgotten that he was still miffed at her for wanting to slow things down. "I don't," she told him. "I just… I'm worried, and I'm trying so hard to be a good person, but—" she trailed off, biting back her emotions before she lost control of them. She'd almost told him about the letter, about the ring, even though she'd decided not to until something more concrete showed up.

He looked at her thoughtfully, a bit of the cool edge disappearing from his gaze, turning to concern instead. "What makes you think you're not a good person?" he inquired softly.

She shook her head and hastily searched for something she could say that made sense. She finally decided on the truth, minus the details about the ring and the letter. "I just keep worrying about those days I was gone. What if I did something terrible? I know it doesn't make sense, but I panic every time I think about it. I feel like I need to figure it out."

"Margot," Alfred murmured, taking her by the shoulders. "It's not healthy for you to obsess over something like that." He sighed and added, "Maybe it shouldn't be figured out. There could be a reason you don't recall a thing."

"That's what I'm afraid of," she whispered in a small voice.

His expression softened, and he pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly. She breathed in the scent of his cologne, burying her face in his shirt. He was warm and strong.

"Maybe you were right," he said after a moment, pulling back to look her in the eye. "I've resented you this entire time for what you said in Switzerland about taking a step back. To be honest, I hate everything about this." He touched her face. "You almost died, and I just want to forget that it ever happened. I thought we could move on if we focused on something else."

"The wedding."

He nodded. "Now I see that you need time."

"It's got nothing to do with us," she reassured him. "I still love you." Her gaze dropped, and she leaned into him. "I still need you."

She felt his lips brush her temple, and again she had the overwhelming urge to tell him everything, but she didn't want to make things worse. He was holding her for the first time in a long time, really holding her, like he actually wanted to and didn't just feel obligated to. Maybe, she thought, she needed to do what Bruce had done for their sake: she'd forget about it and promise not to try to figure it out anymore.

"I just want things to go back to normal," she whispered into Alfred's shoulder.

He nodded. "Yeah," he agreed. "So do I." His hands found hers, and he smiled faintly at her. "Do you want to come in?"

"More than anything."

He pulled her into the room and into a long, vehement kiss. Finally, Margot felt all the emotion he'd kept bottled up since they'd returned. As stiff and proper as he came across to those who didn't know him, he was nothing like that with her, pressing her up against the wall, ravaging her with the desperation of someone who wasn't used to indulging in their desires.

She felt drunk on the sensation of having him close to her again. His touch was intoxicating; it kept drawing her back for more, despite her fears. He made her feel needed, and she needed him most of all. She still admired him more than anyone she'd ever known, still respected him and revered him. She wanted nothing more than his approval. That was the danger, she thought as he spread her on the bed and reacquainted himself with every part of her. That was her weakness, the crux of all her fears, laid out and vulnerable, the one thing she didn't want to admit, even to herself.

She needed him too much.

Still, it felt good to lie in his arms again, with nothing between them except a thin sheen of perspiration.

Margot closed her eyes with a sigh and let herself relax. She felt safe. She always felt safe in Alfred's embrace, as if his arms could contain all of her fears and worries, limit them somehow.

He was quiet for a long time, longer than usual, even for him. After a while, though, he shifted and peered down at her. "Are you sure it's nothing to do with us?" he asked quietly.

"What?" she inquired.

"Taking a step back."

Margot smiled wanly and touched his face. "Yeah. Of course I'm sure."

"You'd tell me otherwise."

She propped herself up on an elbow and regarded him. "Alfred, what is this? You're not usually so…doubtful."

He shrugged and shook his head. "A part of me worries that perhaps I was overly hasty, that I overstepped when I asked you to marry me." Looking at her, he asked nervously, "You didn't say yes because you thought you should, did you?"

Margot scoffed and opened her mouth to reassure him, but instead she found herself hesitating. His face fell. She felt her stomach clench with dread as she whispered, "I don't know."

Alfred nodded slowly.

"Look, Alfred, I still struggle with a lot of shit," she told him hurriedly. "You know that. If anything, I'm just afraid of adding to your burden." She laughed wryly and continued in frustration, "Sometimes I look at you and Bruce and I feel so lucky, but it's not a happy kind of lucky. It's the kind where I wonder how long it will last before something terrible happens and I lose you both." Margot noticed that she was shaking, but she pressed on. "I know I'm good at acting brave, but I'm so scared all the time. It's not even that I'm afraid you'll die. What if I do something awful? What if I make another mistake? What if I'm just not good enough for you?" As she finally uncovered the truth, she could stop the tears from falling down her face.

Alfred, blindsided by her sudden emotional outburst, could only pull her into his arms and hold her tightly. "My God, where is all this coming from?" he inquired in surprise and concern, petting her hair. "Margot, you're more than enough. The fact that you would even worry about something like that…"

She shook her head, scoffing. "I know. It's stupid. It's just my stupid, irrational anxiety."

He tipped her chin up, waiting for her to meet his gaze. "Margot, no matter what you do, I will love you. That's why I'm scared of losing you too." His stark blue eyes were wide and honest. "Let's think worst case scenario. You know if you turned on Bruce, I'd feel betrayed. I'd kill you to protect him." He held her face, his gaze holding hers as he assured her, "But I'd still love you."

"I'd never do that," she whispered.

"I know," he agreed firmly. "I know. You're enough, Margot." He kissed her gently. "Do you believe me?"

She closed her eyes and nodded, concentrating on the warmth of his touch, the feeling of having him so close to her.

"Now do you feel better?" he asked, brushing a strand of her hair back.

Margot nodded. "I've missed this," she told him.

"Yeah," he whispered.

They were quiet for a while, resting, enjoying the silence that inevitably followed long, serious conversations.

"What are you going to do about Bruce now?" Margot inquired after a few minutes.

Alfred didn't even have to ask what she meant. "Get rid of those bloody files," he said without hesitation. "I'll burn them if I can. Of course, he'll need something to distract him, something to fill his time."

She looked up at him curiously. "What do you have in mind?"

The man smiled mischievously. "Dancing lessons."

Margot let out a surprised laugh and snuggled up to him. "Good luck with that."

He chuckled, the sound resonating through her. "You're welcome to join him."

"No," she said firmly, unable to hide a grin.

For the moment, she felt all right, her worries small and inconsequential, wrapped within the boundaries of Alfred's tight embrace.


End file.
